


Dalliance

by thebananahasspoken



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Asphyxiation, Biting, Blood, Bondage, Collar, Cunnilingus, Dominance, Emotional Trauma, Escape, Explicit Language, F/M, Guilt, Humiliation, Intimidation, Manipulation, Marking, Mirror!Sans, Not for the faint of heart, Possessiveness, Regret, Revenge, Rough Sex, SCIENCE!, Soul Rend, Spanking, Threats, Tree punching, Underfell AU, Violence, non-con, seriously dont read this if you arent 18, soul mates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-22 19:08:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 124,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6091111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebananahasspoken/pseuds/thebananahasspoken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sans leaned down over her attempted retreat, his golden canine glinting ominously in the wan light of the hooded lantern he had set outside the bars of her cage.</p><p>He stopped an inch away from the side of her face, glowering and locking gazes with her in silence for another moment, before he finally spoke, shattering the void of noise between them as he did; the storm outside the shack seemed to blow louder without the vacuum of discomfort.</p><p>“care to run that by me again, bitch?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Here, There Be Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so, this was meant to be an all out one shot, but I ended up splitting it down the middle because I kept reading through what I already had written and needed to just get it up already. Speaking of... this is the first fanfiction I've had the courage to post in three years. Please be kind; I tried. Branching out from the one subject I always wrote about was hard, man.
> 
> So, people. This right here that you've found is some Undertail shit. I'm talking porn, yo. The heavy stuff will be in the next chapter, so be prepared for that (hopefully this weekend), and just to cover my ass, yes, all participants are legal age. I'd have declared otherwise in the tags if not.
> 
> This world is inspired by an AU (alternate universe) of Undertale called Underfell; you can look it up on Tumblr if you have time. Basically, the character's personalities have become totally evil. The design of Sans himself is based on the @barasans Sans (he draws Sans very large, bearlike in fact), and the idea for the fic came from one of his audio recordings for Underfell Sans.
> 
> Anywho. Go ahead and read, if you are 18+. If not, go read a book guys. Come on.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing, not even the pants that I may or may not be wearing. Undertale belongs to Toby Fox and the Underfell AU belongs to those who perpetuate and uphold its sanctity on Tumblr.

* * *

The chain rattling ominously, held taut between his clenched fist and the collar around her throat, was the only noise that could be heard in the small, cold, wooden shack, even her ragged breathing and the howling wind outside seeming to fall mute.

The threatening near silence, following Frisk’s clearly foolish question, only grew heavier the longer she stared up and into the flaming red pinpricks of light in captor’s otherwise vacant eye sockets, the caustic grin he had worn only seconds before sinking further into a sharp toothed, _very_ angry grimace.

Another second passed, then two, nearly killing her with the weight of trepidation and Sans’s matched, soul crushing stare, before he finally reacted; upon reflection, though, Frisk would have preferred that he hadn’t, even to break the fell silence.

Seeming to draw from a deep reverie, the tiny spots of light in Sans’s sockets shrank even further, nearly disappearing entirely in his ire, as he wound the thick chain in his grasp around his fingers twice; the already short restraint forced Frisk to take a staggering, reluctant step forward.

She managed to sway to a halt only inches from being forced against his furred, heavy black jacket, the foot he towered over her only growing more pronounced the closer to him she got (ideally, she liked to keep the breadth of a room between them, though he rarely accommodated that wish these days), and, gulping heavily, Frisk leaned away from him cautiously, wary and silently cursing her audacity.

He was so close that she could feel his hot, slow breath disturbing the hair on top of her head; she smelled cigarette smoke and cooked meat on his heavy exhalations.

Shuddering at the rustling contact, Frisk turned her head away in disgust, but caught sight of him moving in her peripheral vision, stilling and staring up from the corner of her eye as Sans leaned down over her attempted retreat; his golden canine glinted ominously in the wan light of the hooded lantern he had set outside the bars of her cage.

He stopped an inch away from the side of her face, glowering and locking gazes with her in silence for another moment, before he finally spoke, shattering the void of noise between them as he did; the storm outside the shack seemed to blow louder without the vacuum of discomfort.

“care to run that by me again, bitch?” he growled, speaking slowly, and his gravely, coarse voice sent quakes of fear through her entire body, emulating the gales shaking the walls of her prison.

That voice, so familiar but so different at once, had petrified her from the moment that she had first heard it, on her second descent into the Underground that she had thought she had saved, years ago.

It had been like a nightmare, finding herself belowground after nearly a decade of peace and completion and friendship and family.

Frisk had known what had happened the moment she found herself standing in the patch of long dead, more brown than gold buttercups, falling to her knees and slamming her fists onto the ground in frustration.

Eight years of progress, lost, gone, up in smoke.

She had cried as she lay in the midst of the dusty flowers, too; sobbed, even, because she had finally felt that she was done with this place.

Surely, she had thought, the wheels of fate and the echo of time in these cursed caverns had long had their way with her… yet had snatched her back without reason nor excuse.

Quickly realizing that lying in the dried up flowerbed would solve nothing, though (but why were the flowers dead? Toriel had always cared for them so well), she had set out to find out why she had been recalled, without reset nor interference from Asriel, setting off into the darkness with all the determination she could muster.

She had been immediately stopped by a mysteriously helpful, though ambivalent, Flowey, however, who, instead of trying to kill her, wanted to help her and protect her; he had remembered nothing of the time before, of the years that had passed since their first meeting, which had been odd and worrisome.

The same incongruity could not be said of the dust covered, eerily perverse Toriel that had appeared to “save her” from the animated flower, her robes torn and unkempt and her crimson eyes wild, almost savage.

She had tried to kill Frisk with a burst of blistering fire, smiling as sweetly as she could around bloodstained, too sharp fangs and calling for her to “reap her just rewards”.

Frisk’s much quicker journey through the Ruins, following fleeing from the ruthless incarnation of her beloved adoptive mother and accompanied by Flowey (who had been housed in an empty boot she had found), had been marked with horror and fear, piles of monster dust lying unattended and blood (from what, she didn’t know) splashed on the tunnel walls.

The local monsters had attacked her savagely, leaving scrapes and bruises all over her body, the traps that she remembered being simple and easily maneuverable, even for an eleven year old, had become a cruel amalgamation of rust, barbed tricks, and dead ends, and she had almost been eaten alive by the before friendly spider bake salers.

She didn’t know what had happened here, but she had intended to find out.

Frisk had, at last, battled the embittered Toriel at the gates to the Underground, unable to look her in the face as she begged for the former queen’s mercy and understanding, but held little hope for deliverance, convinced that she would be stuck in this horrid facsimile of the world she had saved, reset after reset.

Yet just before striking the killing blow, Toriel had faltered, staring at Frisk qualing at her feet in horror, and had fallen to her knees, hugging the prostrate and shocked human she had, to that point, been attempting to violently butcher.

She had let Frisk go with tears in her hard, scarlet eyes, warning her that she wouldn’t survive long if she didn’t fight back; the world was not what it once had been, and was no place for a young, pretty girl, protected only by a powerless flower.

Evil had consumed them all, she had muttered, and slammed the stone doors in Frisk’s face.

Frisk, confused and shaken to her core, had stared at the cracked, weather-beaten entrance to the Ruins for a few moments, conferring quietly with the flower leaning on her shoulder, before turning to face the forest behind her, her heart sinking in her chest as she did.

The snow piled trees that lined the path before her were nearly all dead, burned or toppled or split by lightning (the ones that lived yet looked sickly, grey and bent by the wind); just looking at them gave her chills, like she was observing a battlefield covered in corpses.

Stepping out of the alcove that protected the door had led her to another realization, and one of far more immediate detriment: the weather was awful.

Where once the snow in these caverns had fallen peaceful and silent, decorating the serene landscape with delicate snowflakes and playful drifts, it now whipped at her face in stinging slices of freezing air and bruising hail, forcing her to cover her face with her luckily long sleeves.

The wind had howled in her ears, nearly drowning out all the other noises that might be around her, and she had only been able to see, at most, ten feet in any direction before the scenery whited out from the density of the storm.

Frisk had stumbled haphazardly down the path, mindfully aware of the cliff dangerously close to the edge, but had eventually made it to the small wooden bridge that crossed a gaping chasm in the path, a glimmer of hope lighting in her chest at the recognized landmark.

Sans would be there soon… he would be able to tell her what was going on here.

She had turned on the spot, squinting through the squall and searching desperately while Flowey moaned warnings in her ear, his leaves shaking her shoulder to get her attention, but she hadn’t heeded him, scoffing at the idea that Sans, her funny, charming, loyal Sans, would hurt her.

Even in this barbarous world, he would remember her and their budding relationship, their closeness and longtime camaraderie… he always had.

She wished, now, that she had listened and hidden.

When Sans had appeared behind her, in a whorl of unfamiliar and chilling reds and pointed, devilish teeth and cruel laughter, he had torn Flowey apart with his bare hands when the flower attempted to shield Frisk from him, letting the ashen dust left behind sift through his fingers with a satisfied grin on his cracked skull.

He had turned to her with that same grin, fire and spite glowing in his eye sockets, and had held his dusted hand out to her in a mockery of their past, demanding she shake hands with him, “like a good little meatbag”.

Frisk had run, her tears frosting over on her cheeks as she ducked between broken, shattered tree trunks and mounds of boulders and fought against the pressing darkness of the storm, desperate to escape what couldn't possibly be, but undoubtedly was, the skeleton that had once been her closest friend (and almost lover).

She had sobbed when she failed to reset again and again as she ran, hearing the snap of branches and seeing bright red eyes in the shadows all around her as the demon that Sans had become pursued her through the ruined forest, flashing his way closer and closer every moment, cackling in spite and cruel amusement.

She couldn’t reset.

She was stuck here, and at the mercy of the one monster she had counted on to remember.

Sans had caught Frisk once he had tired of chasing her, appearing beside her and tripping her maliciously, then had picked her up by the neck,  holding her up off the ground and squeezing, almost gleefully watching her choke for breath through her tears and whimpers of fear.

Letting her breathe only when she had started losing consciousness, the light from the luminescent moss on the cavern roof fading from her vision blurrily, Sans had demanded to know what a human was doing in their underworld, and what reason he had to not just snap her neck and take her soul, right there.

Haltingly, Frisk had done her best to tell him, about the resets and the world they had once had and their own adventure through it, and he had immediately called her a liar, not remembering as he always had before, but had hesitated from killing her, looking doubtful of his own conviction.

Unable to decide and apparently wary of Papyrus finding her (had he been twisted by this strange world as well? Would he actually try to capture her?), Sans had turned on the spot and taken a “shortcut” straight into his shed, throwing her onto the dirty floor of the sturdy iron cage within and growling at her to stay there and be quiet, if she knew what was good for her.

His brother would be more than happy to rip her soul out of her chest, if he were to find out she was there; Frisk had recoiled in fear and confusion, hardly able to believe that the gentle, friendly skeleton she had known before would so callously kill her.

Sans had paused, then, just long enough to watch her curl in on herself and weep for her lost friend, along with the loss of all she knew, before calling her pathetic and then disappearing, not coming back until deep into the night.

Frisk had been there ever since, what felt like weeks passing by in the monotony.

The only changes in her scenery were the frequent visits from Sans, and she could hardly call those pleasant.

He had become a sadist in this strange, backwards hellscape, temperamental and violent, and was hungry to have control over those he considered less than him (which was, essentially, her).

Sans enjoyed causing her pain, demanded her absolute respect and deference, and punished what he considered slights to himself or any of his preconceived notions harshly; he had beaten her nearly to death on several occasions, teaching her through pain to mind her manners if she wanted to survive.

Sometimes, though, she grew tired of his cruel, patronizing rhetoric, and forgot to hold her tongue, deceived by his familiar face and voice and drawn to sarcasm and attitude that he did _not_ appreciate.

She seemed to have stumbled into one such gaffe tonight, daring to speak out in the middle of one of his many interrogations about the future she had been ripped from, and could probably now look forward to, at the very least, a few kicks in the stomach.

Frisk, swallowing heavily, clenched her fists at her sides, hoping it would stop their trembling as she hesitantly held the monster beside her’s expectant gaze.

There was a lump in her throat that refused to dislodge, and swallowing didn’t seem to be helping; she desperately wanted it to, so that she could take advantage of what he seemed to be offering her… an out.

She could say something, anything, else, pretend to be ignorant and pretty and emptyheaded… she didn’t have to begin the night with extra bruises.

Frisk knew she couldn’t though.

Her empty stomach cramped and growled at the thought that she might have been considering not assuaging its pain in order to save herself some, reminding her of why she was risking upsetting Sans’s delicate male constitution in the first place (she was starving, what felt like to death), and this, along with a deep seated streak of disobedience rearing its head, firmed her resolve.

He might not have to eat every day, but she did, and couldn’t survive in the cold long, getting food only when he remembered to bring it.

Frisk swallowed again (and again not making the lump dissipate), doing her best to be determined, and straightened her posture, turning her head to face Sans head on.

“I said that I was hungry, and asked if I could have some food,” she exclaimed proudly, voice coming out a little loudly due to her gut wrenching dread, but immediately shrank in on herself cautiously when Sans narrowed his eye sockets dangerously, rising back to his full height and practically bristling with anger.

With a sharp, quick movement and a glare of unconcealed venom, he raised his right hand across his body, tensing and leaning towards her as though to backhand her.

Recognizing the familiar motion (it was one of his favorites, demeaning and effective; he had used it on her often enough for her to know), Frisk panicked, raising her dirt caked, cracked hands in self-defense and flinching away as far as the tight collar around her throat would allow her, squeezing her eyes shut and bracing for pain.

It didn’t come though; after a few seconds of seeing her standing there at his mercy, cowering and deferential, the demented skeleton started chuckling, _hard_ , throwing his head back in his mirth.

The chain shook in his hand as he chortled with relish, jostling Frisk from her reticence, and she peeked up at Sans through her fingers in confusion, just in time to watch him wipe a pseudo tear from a once again brightly lit eye socket before looking back at her, grinning widely.

There was something… off about the smile though.

It was too hard, too sharp, to look like his usual relaxed (if a little insane) smirk; there was malice and pent up fury in it, and looking at it for too long made Frisk feel like he was apt to use his bared teeth to rip her throat out.

Sans laughed again as he met her apprehensive eyes, low and deep in his hollow chest (she could almost feel it reverberating through the air between them), before slowly raising the hand he held her chain in, tightening it and pulling her forward insistently.

Frisk tried to resist by leaning back and locking her knees, already too close to him for comfort, but his strength exceeded her own exponentially (especially considering how weak and malnourished she had become); with a jerk of his wrist, Sans broke her posture and sent her stumbling forward and into his chest clumsily, forced to grab onto the furred lapels of his coat to keep herself from falling.

Once her balance was regained, Frisk released him and tried to pull back, balking at the close contact (she could feel his ribs through his clothes; the feeling reminded her too much of who he wasn’t anymore), but Sans had other ideas, his free hand rising and resting on her upper back lightly, almost like he was checking to see if she was steady.

Frisk’s experiences had taught her otherwise, however, attuned to receiving only torture and mind games and pain from him, and she stilled at his touch, cold that had nothing to do with the howling of the ever present winter storm outside creeping into her veins.

He was not the (mostly) gentle monster he had once been, no kindness or magnanimity left in him… this was bad.

She was proved right a moment later when the skeletal hand resting between her shoulders traced its way up her spine (eliciting a shiver of unwanted stimulation from her), to tangle in her filthy, snarled hair; the contact felt uncomfortably intimate until he pulled back on his hand, hard.

Letting out a surprised cry of pain at the sudden movement, Frisk was forced to look up at him again to ease the stinging in her scalp, meeting his hard, scarlet gaze apprehensively.

The wrong, twisted smile he wore didn’t reach his eye sockets; the malevolence she found in his stare filled her with trepidation and dread.

Finally having her where he wanted her, Sans spoke at last, mirth still coating his voice into an almost recognizable timbre; the hint of danger that shadowed his humor, however, accompanied by the spluttering flash of blood red magic in his left eye socket, confirmed that he was still different, still not _her_ Sans, and Frisk winced, wishing she could go back and just see him one more time, to not be here with _him_.

She was though, her omniscience removed from her and escape a faraway dream; all she had was _this_ Sans, with his sharp teeth and his cold scrutiny and his hard, painful hand in her hair, twisting as he spoke.

“hungry, huh? coulda fooled me… seems like the only thing you’re hungry for is _punishment_. you’re practically beggin’ for it, talkin’ to me like that… tellin’ me what to fuckin’ do,” he intoned laughingly, the darkness of his tone stealing all pleasantness from his comment, before shaking his head, sighing, as if in pity, and rattling the chain in his grasp deliberately, drawing Frisk’s attention to its dull coils wrapped around his hand.

“i think you need ta be reminded of somethin’.”

Teeth still bared in a sharp, nasty grin, Sans then yanked on Frisk’s hair so hard that she let out an involuntary yelp of agony, neck popping uncomfortably and tears flooding into her wide eyes, blurring her world into a kaleidoscope of black and red and white.

His smile widened at her display of pain, his left eye flashing red again briefly before dissipating, and leaned down to Frisk’s eye level again, clearly enjoying the tears streaming down her cheeks.

“ya seem to’ve forgotten who’s in charge here, who’s keepin’ your ass from gettin’ dragged in front of my butcher of a brother; i’d have thought you’d be more grateful. but all i get from you are complaints and lies and fuckin’ _backtalk_ ,” he rasped harshly, punctuating his last word with a sharp tug of the chain in his hand, making Frisk choke on a drawn breath as her collar tightened.

“you only fuckin’ _receive_ , bitch, when _i_ think you deserve it, and don’t you forget that.”

Frisk, eyes squeezed shut against the pain in her throat and scalp, whimpered haltingly, cracking one eye open to look up her antagonist beseechingly.

It ground against her pride, and she wanted nothing more than to give him even more "backtalk", but she could see he was in a mood tonight; she would have to be subservient if she wanted to eat.

“What do you want me to… to do? To deserve it,” she stuttered hoarsely, acerbic but nevertheless dreading the reason behind why he hadn’t hit her and was instead pressing her against his body, and Sans’s smirk cranked up another notch, something predatory and sinister in its cant.

The magic that had been spluttering sporadically in his eye socket finally sparked to life, painting the small room a bright red, and from behind his jagged fangs, parted in a mocking facsimile of a laugh, what Frisk hesitated to call a tongue coiled around one of his incisors, red tinted, luminescent saliva dripping from it hideously.

“i think y’can earn what you want…” he practically purred, his tentacle like, neon red tongue darting out to lick at one of the still wet tear trails on Frisk’s cheek.

“if ya get on your _fuckin’ knees_.”

Frisk, too shocked by his demand, took a too long moment to digest what he had really said, still and horrified.

He couldn’t mean what she thought he did… could he?

She could feel the implication almost tangibly, however, hanging in the air and burning her through the weight of his hungry gaze and pressing, uncomfortably and sickeningly, against her stomach through his rough shorts.

Frisk had felt this moment coming closer for weeks; the longer that she had spent trapped in this frigid shed, each night being questioned and beaten and harassed by the fiendish monster, the more he had started to look at her differently.

When Sans had first come to her in the night, he had had questions about her presence in the underground, comparing his knowledge of spacetime with the unlikelihood of her testament; he wanted to know why, if the Underground had been saved, she had been reset, and why everything was so different from how she claimed it had been.

He had grown increasingly frustrated by the lack of answers she had, however (she knew no more than he did, after all, an unwilling participant in all of this), certain that she was willfully withholding vital information, and had become frequently more violent and tempestuous, striking out at her when she didn't understand something or got annoyed and stepped out of line or even if he didn't like how she was looking at him.

There had been nothing sexual about their interactions, for which she was grateful; if he had remembered that part of their past interactions, she didn’t think she could’ve lived…

Until one night the week before this, when she had thrown one of his own foul mouthed diatribes back in his face, tired of getting pushed around.

He had thrown her to the floor and straddled her stomach, hands around her throat while he snarled at her about keeping "her bitch mouth fucking shut" if she wanted to keep her teeth, but had paused in his rage, seeming to suddenly notice their position and the way her dress pulled tight against her breasts.

He had stared for an astoundingly long time, hands twitching as though wanting to do something with them besides strangle her (for once), but had eventually removed himself from her and had spent the last hour of his visit across the cage from her, though his gaze never left her body again that evening.

Sans had gotten more and more bold in his interest as time dragged on, before content to only approach her when she had offended him but now, and increasingly each time he appeared in the shed, lingering within feet of her at all times.

His observations of her body had grown more heated, he touched her for longer when he felt that he had been wronged enough to justify beating her, and as the days grew longer, each passing hour dreaded more than the last (given Sans's sudden and unwelcome attentions), he became more audacious.

A week ago he had decided she needed the collar she wore now, saying he didn't trust her word that she couldn't reset to escape; she had fought against it, humiliated and irritated by his constant demands, and in the struggle that had ensued, he had somehow managed to rip the front of her dress open, a long tear in the knitted fabric reaching down far past the cleavage of her breasts.

He had stared for a long time then, too.

He had lingered too long, four days before, when pushing her up against the wall after she had argued against something he had said (what the subject had been and what was said, she couldn’t recall), his breath getting heavier the longer he pressed his body against her back.

He had smelled her hair two days ago, leaning over her and inhaling deeply in the nape of her neck when she had turned away from him in moderated anger (she had gotten enough bruises on her face the day before to want to talk back, even if she had a pretty good comeback).

Yesterday, he had outright groped her, sharp finger bones digging into her ass as he brushed past her to refill her water dish (which was, humiliatingly, a small dog bowl), and what she had thought at the time to be an accident she now recognized for the advance that it had been.

And now, with his eye flaming in its socket and his erection pushing against her body (more pliable than his bones but still hard and large and _god…)_ , he had demanded, in as many words, that she give him a blowjob if she wanted to be allowed to eat.

The unspoken inference numbed her, almost as efficiently as the saliva lingering on her cheek; they both stung, humiliated, and disgusted her equally…

Just as they both made an alien warmth in her abdomen grow.

Frisk, unwilling to consider what _that_ meant (she wasn’t into this kind of thing, she couldn’t be), grimaced and turned back to the situation at hand, raising a shaky hand to wipe her cheek with its back and lowering her eyes meekly away from Sans’s smug face.

She hated that she was being forced into intimacy with the shade of a monster that she had once wanted this from, who she had _dreamed_ of giving pleasure to; the beast that had taken his place didn’t deserve it.

But… but.

She was going to have to do it; she didn’t think she’d make it another two or three days without sustenance, not to mention the danger that would come from snubbing him.

The first time she had disobeyed Sans, refusing to talk to him and give him information he wanted, he had beaten her so severely she hadn’t been able to move for five days; he had almost killed her, and he hadn’t been this angry then.

Without resets, she needed to be careful with how many risks she took, especially when it came to monsters that had undeniable power over her life.

Wishing suddenly that she had something in her stomach to throw up, Frisk, shuddering and gagging at the thought of what she was about to do, let out a shaky breath and collapsed her coltishly locked knees, slowly sinking down towards the floor.

Sans, ivory lids lowered in an expression of cruel victory, released her hair and uncoiled the chain wrapped around his fist enough to allow her to kneel at his feet, then slipped his free hand into his coat pocket idly, his glowing iris riveted to every move the girl made.

At the moment, having finally settled to her knees on the rough, dirty floorboards (the grain clung to her torn leggings, irritating the skin beneath), Frisk was fidgeting nervously, looking anywhere but at the softly glowing bulge in her captor’s shorts, only inches from her nose.

Bitter bile was climbing her throat, the reality of her situation too real and unfair (she sounded like a little girl again, complaining about having to do her homework, though the comparison was a little… skewed), and in her lap, her fists clenched, her resolve wavering.

She couldn’t do this… it wasn’t right, this wasn’t _him_ , not anymore…

Her disgust and indecision must have shown on her face, because above her, Sans let out a dark chuckle, his tongue hanging from between his teeth viscously.

“you look so good on your knees, sweetheart… i might just keep ya there,” he crooned mockingly, spreading his stance deliberately and making his hips sway towards her (and grinning wider when she flinched backwards at his advance), obvious pleasure in his flickering gaze.

Frisk, cringing at the sound of his disdainful voice and wanting nothing more than to disappear (she had never been this degraded, and she didn’t like how that was making her knees weak and her abdomen clench), swallowed for what felt like the umpteenth time before finally, haltingly, raising her hands towards the buckle of her adversary’s barely visible belt, fingers shaking and tears stinging her eyes.

Sans watched her measured approach in silence, savage pleasure glowing in his iris and glinting on his bared teeth, before letting out a gruff chortle, removing his hand from his pocket to knock her hands away.

Startled and quailing (had she done something wrong? Was he going to hit her?), Frisk looked cautiously up at the openly laughing skeleton, his shark-like smile truly amused as he shook his head slowly, tsk-ing his tongue.

“what do you think you’re doin’, human?” he sneered, his free hand crudely adjusting himself in the confines of his shorts, and Frisk, thoroughly confused, stared at him uncomprehendingly, frantically searching for meaning in this situation.

Had she done it wrong? How could that be? She hadn’t even started.

“I… I was going to… you know…” she stammered perplexedly, a flush of mortification and shame creeping up to stain her cheeks as her decisiveness and determination left her in the idleness of the moment, and, from above her, Sans’s sadistic leer sharpened.

“you were goin’ to… what?” he prompted callously, dragging the tip of his tongue along his top row of teeth salaciously, and Frisk, suddenly realizing that he had orchestrated this misunderstanding to debase her, ducked her head, scowling at her once again clenched fists with growing ire.

Bastard…

“I thought that… you wanted me to… suck you,” she forced out between clenched teeth, hating him and her cell and the floor that she was kneeling on and this whole god forsaken world that had sucked her in without offering an escape, and Sans, noticing her pique and reveling in it, cackled condescendingly.

“heh… i told ya to get on your knees, sugar, not to blow me. it _is_ interestin’ how quick ya jumped to that conclusion, though… like ya couldn’t wait for the chance to wrap those pretty lips around my cock,” he alluded, his voice heavy with false admonishment and taunting, and Frisk flushed redder, wanting to hit him so badly it hurt, almost as much as the floor she was kneeling on was starting to.

Sans wasn’t done yet, though, yanking the chain in his grip hard enough to make her head snap up and meet his gaze; he smirked perversely at her, once her eyes were back on him.

“why _did_ ya think i wanted you to “suck me”, hmm?” he pressed antagonistically, thrusting his hips forward to unnecessarily emphasize his question and making Frisk lean her head backwards again to avoid making contact with him.

His grin was wide and hungry and so sharp that looking at it was painful, a trail of drool dripping from his fangs.

“did you really want me ta stuff my dick down your throat that bad? because i can quench your thirst… if ya ask nicely.”

She should have been shocked by his crudeness, though she had heard far worse from him in the way of innuendo and harsh words.

She should have been horrified that he was just as aggressive and cruel when it came to his sexual appetites.

She should have been shaken, bowed her head despite his abuse and disdain, maybe apologized for clearly misunderstanding.

Frisk was none of those things.

Frisk was angry.

Frisk was sick and tired of taking his shit.

And what she did instead of bending to his whim was grit her teeth, glare up at him venomously, and spit on his coat.

“I thought that because you meant for me to, you sadistic sack of garbage,” she snarled, wrinkling her nose in distaste as she looked the stock still monster over critically. “I am not a toy for you to mess around with. I don’t want you, in any way; I only want _him_. You are _nothing_ like him, and you never will be!”

It should have sunk in that Sans had been quiet for a long time while she hissed at him; it should have given her pause that his grin had transformed into a flat line of clenched teeth and that, in his tightened fist, the chain was shaking.

None of it registered with her until it was already too late.

Faster than Frisk could react, his foot connected with her left shoulder, sending her crashing to the floor on her side.

Her head bounced once on the ground, her cheek scraping on an exposed nail, before she was jerked back by the chain; her eyes clouded over from the pain of her landing and the echoing resounding in her throbbing head.

Blinking to clear her vision and struggling to rise from her fall, the second kick to her already abused shoulder came as a surprise, rolling her onto her back so fast and roughly that her breath left her.

The shoe that came down on her sternum, putting steadily increasing pressure on her straining lungs, didn’t help the situation.

Frisk wheezed, scrabbling her cracked fingernails against the sneaker placed in the center of her chest and recovering from her blurry sight just in time to see Sans lean over her prostrate body menacingly, placing an elbow on his raised knee and increasing the weight on her lungs.

She had never seen him look more terrifying.

His glowing iris was sparking insanely in his eye socket, throwing magical fire past the confines of his skull and putting his hateful glare and pointed fangs into sharp, disturbing relief; she would have said he wore a grin if it hadn’t had the distinct impression of murder burned into it.

Magic ran in sizzling currents of blood red light along the cracks in his bones, fizzling hotly in the cool air, and a sound she could only relate to animalistic growling was coming from somewhere deep in his chest.

Maybe it was the bursting pressure on her lungs making her head fuzzy, but Frisk could have sworn she saw an aura exuding from him, red and malicious; skeletal canine heads cavorted in that light, their demonic eyes piercing straight to her soul.

They were gone before she could look again though; she forgot them immediately, as she was more preoccupied with gasping for air while she felt, in her chest, her ribs begin to creak in protest to the weight being pushed on them.

She was going to die, she realized, and shut her eyes, bracing for the pain of feeling her own bones puncturing her lungs.

It was then that the pressure lifted marginally, and air rushed into her collapsing chest, leaving her head spinning as she gulped at it desperately, interspersing her deep, thankful breaths with shuddering coughs.

She had perhaps five second to revel in her not-death before she was interrupted by a rough yank to the chain still attached to her neck and a hard, deep, guttural voice cutting through the frigid air.

“ ** _look at me, whore_**.”

Frisk froze, her bruised chest shooting shockwaves of pain up her torso in return for her sudden labored breathing, and hesitantly cracked her eyes open, looking up at the glowering skeleton above her.

Sans seemed to have calmed down marginally, his magic still bright but more subdued in his eye socket; he looked no less displeased, however, and showed it when he sneered at her, voice rumbling like a far off storm and breath leaving him in steaming, billowing clouds.

“next time you fuckin’ talk to me like that, _hussy_ , i’ll put my foot through your chest and out the other side,” he warned mordantly, digging the toe of his shoe in for emphasis and grinning humorlessly at her grunt of discomfort.

“whether you want my cock in your mouth or not will be the least of your worries _then_.”

Frisk, trembling at the awful reality of his promise (she didn't want to find out the hard way if she really could reset or not) and from the pain she was in, nodded her understanding shortly, becoming numbly aware that her hands were still wrapped around his shoe and removing them.

Sans, unimpressed, remained leaning over her, glaring down at her with wrath still plain on his face.

“and as for your backtalk… you’ll be payin’ for that, too. you’ll clean up the mess you made, you’ll apologize…” he demanded softly, though there was nothing soft in the way his hand pulled at her chain or in the hardness of his grimace.

“and then you’ll find out just how bad you fucked up, my little _toy_.”


	2. The Abyss Gazes Also

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “seems like you didn’t get the picture from our little talk, so i’ll tell you one more time: keep a lid on your fuckin’ attitude, and you get to keep that cute tongue,” he threatened, yanking her jaw open roughly and scraping his claw over her tongue in emphasis (Frisk held back a gag as best she could, the bone strangely coarse and smooth at the same time, and tasting a good deal like his jacket did). 
> 
> He bent over her prostrate form, voice lowering into a rasping, hostile murmur. 
> 
> “don’t forget again… i’d hate to have to rip it out after you’ve shown me what y’can do with it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dang diddly darn, I had to do it again T-T the chapter was getting too long; it would've been over fifteen thousand words long by the time I finished if I kept it together. So here we are, and still no real smut to speak of... however, it won't be a month before the next update this time XD I've actually got most of the next chapter written this time, and no surprise story changes to deal with. These kids... they got minds of their own, I swear.
> 
> Anyway. Here's chapter two, from the pits of hell to your faces. Warnings apply from last time, its still dark and violent and not so nice. I swear there will be boning next, though. Promise.
> 
> You. Yeah, you, the person that isn't 18. Go home, kid.

* * *

Frisk immediately bristled at the condescension in his tone and words, his pointed reference to her censure only making the insult cut deeper, but with his shoe still pressing directly over her heart, and the pain of his abuse still fresh, she thought it unwise to tell him exactly what she thought of his arrogation.

She didn’t know what he planned, but she was sure it would all be in retribution for her disrespect; his interrupted conversation about a scarred, monochrome being with time travelling powers was long forgotten.  

As such, instead of launching into the wave of criticisms he deserved, Frisk turned her head away and gritted her teeth against the taste of defeat.

“Whatever,” she muttered bitterly, petulant and aching and _pissed_ , and above her, Sans sneered, digging his heel into her chest one more time before stepping back onto the ground and yanking on her chain demandingly.

"what a _good_ girl..." he crooned at her mockingly, making her cheeks flush with indignity; his previously suspended magic returned to rematerialize his undulating scarlet tongue, its tip tracing the point of a sharp incisor lovingly.

"keep bein’ so obedient, dollface, and i _might_ forgive you. but for now... get back on your damn knees, and be quick about it; i'm runnin’ out of patience."

Frisk, already incensed, was now livid, her teeth grinding together so hard that her jaw ached (not that the rest of her already didn't).

She thought seriously, for a moment, about telling him where he could shove his “patience”, but the small victory of getting back at him would not be worth dying for.

She wouldn’t be stuck here forever, she reassured herself; eventually, there would be an opening for her to escape... she just had to be patient and bite the metaphorical bullet for now.

He was trying to provoke her, and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of making her lose her cool again (and, consequentially, getting to punish her more).

So, while she dearly wished she could rip Sans an entirely new breathing hole (why did he even need to breathe?), Frisk instead rolled her body up from the floor she lay on with a hiss of pained exertion, shifting her legs beneath her slowly.

Her chest burned from just sitting up, and it was excruciating to breathe in too deeply; a few of her ribs must be cracked.

Once settled again on her abused knees, Frisk drew a shuddering breath, laced with a sickening sounding cough, then glared up at her persecutor spitefully, sneering but obediently silent.

Sans chuckled darkly at her expression, taking a step forward and pulling her chain taut again to keep her from drawing away from his advance.

“you’re so pretty when you’re mad,” he murmured disdainfully, a lopsided smirk lifting his expectance into conquest, then reached out with a clawed hand to drag his thumb down her cheekbone to her mouth (Frisk shuddered against her will, her abdomen clenching at the contact), flicking his sharp nail over her bottom lip with a pop of breaking suction.

The moment would have felt almost quixotic if he hadn’t then seized her chin in his hand, yanked her up so that her back was straight (the pain of which nearly made her faint), then forced her face against the front of his jacket, smearing her own saliva against her cheek.

“now, why dontcha use that dirty little mouth to clean up after yourself?” he commanded, his hand moving around to the back of her head to trap her against him, and Frisk struggled to sit back, the smell of nicotine and iron and magic filling her nose claustrophobically.

Sans held her in place, though, digging his clawed fingers into her scalp and pressing her harder against him; she could feel the emptiness beyond his clothes, where internal organs would normally be.

Frisk stilled, suddenly remembering the time that she had accidentally slipped her hand under her Sans’s shirt when she had danced with him at Undyne and Alphys’s anniversary dinner, her fingers brushing against his hip bone and dragging a surprised moan from him, exhaled against her neck (he had been so embarrassed, a blue glow spreading over his cheekbones that he tried desperately to hide with the collar of his slightly wrinkled dinner jacket).

Would this Sans react the same way?

A red so deep that it rivaled her antagonist’s magic colored her face at the strange, invasive thought, and Frisk shook it away numbly, reminding herself that she wouldn’t ever be close enough to him to find out (she didn’t want to be; she hadn’t lied when she said she didn't want him, despite her bizarre and unwelcome urges).

If she got this ego stroking done for him, he would leave her alone, hopefully feed her (and heal her injuries at the same time; monster food had miraculous healing properties, as it was made primarily from magic), and tomorrow she could, with a modicum of patience on her part, grit her teeth and answer his questions without inciting him into behavior like this again.

Her opportunity for escape would come, she knew it.

Wrinkling her nose at her decided task, Frisk clenched her eyes shut before poking her tongue out and licking at one of the streaks of cold wetness clinging to the soft material of Sans’s jacket, shuddering at the residue of cigarettes and, undoubtedly, what his bones tasted like (it was bitter and tart flavor, like the inside of an orange peel) on the fabric.

She didn’t bother to linger and immediately ran her tongue over the stitching of his left pocket, even though she really didn’t want to lick him again; this felt _far_ too intimate for her comfort.

Above her, Sans’s breathing hitched as he watched her lick his coat again, his fingers tightening reflexively in her hair; he clearly concurred on the carnality of the moment, but unlike the girl kneeling at his feet, didn’t seem to mind.

“ _damn_ … i could watch you for hours,” he growled beneath his breath, tongue hanging from his mouth lewdly, and Frisk, now running the tip of her tongue over the half closed zipper on his jacket, flushed resentfully, narrowing her eyes in clear disgust and, with no small amount of impertinence, finished her assigned duty with one last lick.

When she tried to sit back, though, wanting nothing more than to wash her mouth out with the small, surprisingly fragrant bar of soap that had been thrown at her head the first night she was held in this shed ("wash yourself, freak; you're making me sick"), his hand held her in place yet again.

Eye twitching temperamentally, Frisk glared up at the brashly smug looking skeleton restraining her, lip curling.

" _What_?" she snapped, her irritation leaking into her voice despite her best effort at suppressing it, then froze when Sans’s grin became tight, his fingers sliding around her cheek (and leaving tingling red trails in the wake of his claws) to dig into her chin again, sharp fingertips scraping at her already raw skin painfully.

He jerked her head up to meet his gaze, brow bones furrowed over his flaring scarlet iris.

“you’re bein’ awful fuckin’ mouthy tonight,” he hissed, his thumb dragging up her chin, pushing past her lips, and hooking into her cheek invasively; Frisk balked, instinctively wanting to push it out of her mouth with her tongue, but at the same moment unwilling to touch him any more than she was already being forced to.

“seems like you didn’t get the picture from our little talk, so i’ll tell you _one_ more time: keep a lid on your fuckin’ attitude, and you get to keep that cute tongue,” he threatened, yanking her jaw open roughly and scraping his claw over her tongue in emphasis (Frisk held back a gag as best she could, the bone strangely coarse and smooth at the same time, and tasting a good deal like his jacket did).

He bent over her prostrate form, voice lowering into a rasping, hostile murmur.

“don’t forget again… i’d hate to have to rip it out after you’ve shown me what y’can do with it.”

Frisk, cowed and a little unsettled, trembled in place, forcefully silenced by the finger bone in her mouth (which was now rubbing up and down the middle of her tongue, as though the monster enjoyed the feel of it); she stared up at him in the quavering hush that had fallen, trying to appear submissive enough to get him to stop.

She didn’t like how uncomfortably damp her panties were getting, with Sans’s repeated high-handedness and coercions and contact with her overly sensitive skin… his thumb in her mouth was doing particularly odd things to her brain, a fuzz of hot static clouding her thoughts.

She couldn’t let him know, couldn’t let him continue touching her like he had been, and if that meant doing whatever he wanted, being compliant and _deferential_ (the thought grated, rubbing her the wrong way intensely), so be it.

Thankfully, Sans appeared appeased by her subservience and leered exultantly, slowly dragging his thumb from her mouth; he trailed the saliva left on it down her chin and its underside, making her shiver when it cooled almost instantly in the permeating cold of the night.

“that’s _right_ … back down like a good little bitch,” he hummed, clearly pleased with himself and his intimidation as his wandering fingers traced a cool, shiver inducing line down to the collar strapped tightly around Frisk’s throat.

He dug his fingers under the leather, jerking on it pointedly.

“you know your place now, don’t you princess? you know you belong _here_ , on your knees in front of me, takin’ anythin' I’m willin’ to give,” he huffed fervently, exhaling heavily through his empty nasal passage and pulling on her collar again, before leaning further over her and, with a sinister smile, laving his dripping, sticky tongue across her still gaping lips.

Shocked and scandalized, Frisk jerked as far away from him as she could, wiping quickly at her mouth to rid herself of the uncomfortably _familiar_ residue (god, no… he felt, _tasted_ like her Sans…) while her antagonist chuckled darkly, enjoying her discomfort.

“you’re _mine_ , human. mine to _play with_ and _control…_ ” he purred, tone brooking no argument, and dragged the tip of his scarlet tongue over his teeth slowly, seeming to savor the taste of her with a teasing lilt to his expression before he finally pulled back, rising back to his full height.

“now, are you done bein’ a bitch so we can get back to business?” he asked conversationally, withdrawing his fingers from the collar and wiping the excess spit still on his thumb on the ripped neckline of her dress (she didn’t miss how his glowing eye lingered on the skin bared by the large tear, his hand slow to pull away from it), and Frisk, still scrubbing the back of her hand over her mouth, flushed hotly, lowering her eyes and clenching her lips tightly.

This wasn’t going how she thought it would.

While she knew he wouldn’t react well to her discordance, she hadn’t expected the heavy, hungry desire she could feel radiating off of him, so different from his usual ravening for power and dominance over her.

He seemed excited and edgy, demanding and forcing intimate contact with her… he had even said she was _his_.

Sans’s claim of possession shook her to the core, sending her heart rocketing up into her throat and then immediately dropping it through the bottom of her stomach.

If he considered her _his_ , he wasn’t just going to shrug her escape off and let her go; he would hunt her down, bring her back, and then… she didn’t even want to know what he would do to her.

She felt ill, sickened by the thought of being trapped here, tied up like a dog and under the heavy hand of the menacing skeleton, forced to let him touch her if she didn’t want to be abused or starved…

What if she started wanting it… wanting _him_?

Frisk flinched indiscernibly, her lower lip threatening to start trembling behind her hand.

She couldn’t imagine a future where she would ever _want_ this smirking, haughty, vicious monster, but she had heard of people in situations like hers accepting how they were treated, even falling in love with their oppressors; they would defend them in court and to the authorities, claiming that they weren’t as bad as they seemed.

Some women even had their captor’s children.

A knot formed in her throat at the thought, her fingernails biting into her snagged and torn leggings and her breath catching in her aching chest.

She knew that monsters could breed with humans, from the progress the Aboveground had made in the years since the monsters’ emergence (the first half-monster, half-human child had been born only months before the world reset) and the shared history of the world.

The powerful, magic infused children the couplings produced were how, many hundreds of years ago, humans had been able to bind the monsters to the Underground.

The seven sorcerers had had monster magic in them.

Frisk didn’t want to think what that could mean for her, if she couldn’t get away from Sans and he decided that it took more than her obedience and oppression to satisfy him.

She didn’t _think_ that he had thought quite as far into his unsavory interest in her as considering forcing himself on her, but if things between them went on the course they seemed to be now, she could find herself in the position of being the monster’s unwilling lover and, depending on how careful he was (she wasn’t optimistic on that front; did monsters even _have_ birth control?), perhaps even bearing his offspring.

Tears threatened to rise in her lowered eyes, the injustice of her situation choking her; she hadn’t ever done anything to deserve this, to have to worry about carrying the children of a creature holding her prisoner.

She hadn’t even started thinking about having kids, in her life before… eventually, and with the right father, she was sure that she would have wanted to, but she was too young, only having just turned nineteen a month ago (two months now, she supposed; she had been trapped in this shack for a several weeks).

A sudden thought struck her, and pinked her cheeks accordingly; would the Sans in the other world have wanted children?

Perhaps even have wanted to have them with… her?

Was this Sans of the same mind?

Recoiling from that train of thought, Frisk shook herself from her melancholy, knowing that it was useless to keep worrying about it; she knew what she needed to do to keep him happy (or as happy as a jaded, perpetually volatile monster could get).

She just needed to accept his heavy handed domination and smile while she did it.

She couldn’t sit here pitying herself forever, as the object of her considerations was looking down at her expectantly, already starting to get irritated if she could tell anything from the twitch at the corner of his smirk.

She couldn’t think about it any more now, but she would once she had placated him and he left; she needed to get away, and _soon_ , before something happened that couldn’t be fixed.

Swallowing away her mind numbing, harrowing thoughts, Frisk looked back up at the impatient skeleton, her hand dropping away from her now mostly clean mouth (some of his saliva had dripped onto her tongue; the magic in it was flickering along the inside of her mouth and tingling against her nerves) to land back in her lap numbly.

“Yes, I’m done,” she muttered tonelessly, not wanting to encourage him any more than he already was (he was animated beyond anything she had ever seen from him before), and Sans, smug once more, huffed out a gravely chortle, watching with blatant satisfaction as an overlooked drip of his luminescent drool trickled from the girl’s neck down between her breasts.

“fuckin’ _finally_ … i was startin’ to think you forgot what you were doin’,” he cackled ominously, and Frisk, confused, glanced up at him through her eyelashes, eyebrows furrowing.

What was he talking about?

“I wasn’t doing anything. I cleaned my m… your jacket, like you wanted,” she cited slowly, nodding her head at the now mostly clean front of his fur lined coat (no amount of licking was going to get the scattered drops of dried mustard out), and in that moment, his smirk grew to be the sharpest and most wicked she had ever seen it, outdoing even when he had first discovered how badly it hurt her to have her hair pulled.

“you missed a spot,” he stated matter-of-factly, ducking his chin downwards minutely and oozing conceit, and she had to try very hard not to glare at him, annoyance ticking at the back of her mind.

God, when would he leave her _alone_?

Biting down on her tongue to hold back the sigh of exasperation building in her throat (and wincing when she became aware of the minute, shallow cuts decorating the surface of her tongue from his sharp nail), she rolled her eyes covertly before moving them up to more closely inspect his mostly clean jacket.

He was just being a douchebag; she had clearly gotten it all… off…

 _No_.

Dread and a chill cooler than even the room around them sank into her chest as she froze in the middle of her sanctimonious perusal of her handiwork, the glint of something wet catching the scattered rays of light in the small shed and drawing her eyes down, down…

To the crotch of his pants.

Frisk, resisting the urge to cry, swallowed heavily, hesitantly looking on the most diabolical curveball the universe had ever thrown her, including being ripped from her peaceful, loving home and thrust into the Underground all over again.

A spatter of saliva had dripped down from the waistline of his jacket and onto the still unsettlingly present, softly glowing bulge in Sans’s shorts; it shone almost derisively, existing despite the unlikelihood of its presence.

Given his tasteless predilections lately, and if she didn’t know better, she’d have thought that he’d somehow willed it there deliberately.

A gruff chuckle resonated from above her as she slumped on her knees, inwardly bemoaning her fate; Sans seemed to find her expression of abject horror to be amusing, if the way his rib cage was rising and falling told her anything.

“whatsa matter, sugartits? you couldn’t wait to get your filthy hands on my dick earlier… don’t pretend to be shy,” he crooned mockingly, the chain in his grasp jingling in time with his coarse snickers, and Frisk gulped noisily, wanting nothing more than to avert her eyes from the front of his pants but seemingly unable to.

It should be impossible that he was getting worse as time dragged, still tormenting her in brand new, very unwelcome ways; she had never been more anxious about an unfolding timeline before, even when she had been walking to her potential doom in Asgore’s castle, what seemed like a century ago.

He was only getting bolder as the evening wore on (was it past midnight yet? He had _never_ stayed this long…), too keyed up for her to be safe around him, but he showed no sign of losing interest, clearly determined to get his revenge for her rebellion, and if things kept progressing this way…

If she let him force her to basically lick his cock through his shorts…

She shuddered, finally able to draw her eyes away from the tented fly of his pants (she could tell he had been enjoying her perusal, the magically summoned appendage twitching almost consciously against the fabric restraining it) to stare, with anger and deep thought both, at the loose ties on his red and yellow sneakers.

She needed to find a way out of this situation; there was _no_ way she could do what he was asking, morally and in the interest of her own sanity (this humiliation was making her feel too hot, too responsive to him).

It was unlikely that she could talk him out of it; all of her attempts to argue with him before had ended with him beating her until she admitted that he was right, so that was out.

This iteration of him was just too stubborn to reason with.

It also seemed too dangerous, at the moment, to outright refuse him, considering how close she had come to dying no more than ten minutes ago; she could still feel the pressure of his heel biting into her sternum, how terrifying it had been to look into his furious, consciousless visage as she felt her death clawing up her closing throat…

No, she didn’t want to repeat that twice in the same night, if ever again.

Something that _had_ worked before, however, something that had proven effective on the other Sans as well (when had the monster she loved become the _other_? That was distressing…), was begging; she always got what she wanted from them when she ducked her chin and looked up at them through her eyelashes, pretending at regard and reverence.

She considered herself fairly good at it, if her results were any indication.

When her vanity had sunken low enough, she had brought herself to stoop to begging amenities of this Sans, like a blanket or a pair of mittens, but had only done so a few times; after she had managed to weasel a change of underclothes from him, she hadn’t done it again (she could still remember the way he had grinned, the cat that had gotten the cream, when handing over the panties she was now wearing… it made ice seep into her bones).

He always behaved oddly, after she had plead with him, recalling how his bones would flush red and beads of sweat would build on his skull and the lights in his sockets, already quick and depraved, would sharpen into hot daggers of unknowable intensity.

She felt like prey, under that gaze.

Desperate times called for desperate measures, however; she could deal with him staring at her like he wanted to eat her if it meant avoiding this encounter.

As such, Frisk swallowed her pride, sat up straighter on her knees (her ribs protested the change in posture, but she ignored them for now; if everything went according to plan, she would be healing them soon), and raised wide, plaintive eyes to her captor’s ravenous, grinning countenance, tilting her head to the side cutely and fluttering her eyelashes.

“Please… I know I deserve it, but please… don’t make me. I’ll make it up to you, I swear…” she implored softly, tone dipping into the cadence she knew worked best (breathy and trembling; it really completed the picture of innocence) as her gut churned uncomfortably with disgust for the ploy, but felt immediate vindication when she saw, with a dull sounding clack, Sans’s jaw drop open, his former smirk slackening and his eye sockets widening.

The hand that held her chain fell to his side, rattling dissonantly, his other clenching into a reflexive fist; in the sudden silence, she heard his usually deep breathing stop completely.

While initially victorious, Frisk quickly felt her perceived success trickle away like water through her fingers the longer the staring, motionless skeleton hovered over her, an inkling of worry worming into her mind.

She had never seen him react like this… she hadn’t even seen an expression like his before, as though he had been struck with lightning, or had seen something that shook him to his soul.

She couldn’t, and wouldn’t, grace it with a more in depth description.

She wanted desperately to draw away from him, to furrow her eyebrows and query about what the hell was wrong with him, but held her ground, smiling wistfully up at him instead; no sense in wrecking her progress now, with the damage already done.

This was either going better than she could have hoped, or much, much worse, and the only way to find out was forging onward.

The last nail in the coffin, as they say, must have been her tentative smile up at him, because when he saw it, gaze flicking from her eyes to her mouth, Sans emerged from his comatose paralysis with a jolt (as though he had started to fall asleep) and a long, shuddering breath, the flaming iris in his skull lingering, with a heat she didn’t like, on her chapped lips.

“ _ **stars**_...” he groaned lasciviously, the sound so sexual and full of a lust she had heard only once before (her Sans had gotten very excited the last night she had seen him) that she sat back on her heels in alarm, recognizing the timbre of his voice and immediately registering her mistake.

Frisk suddenly had a name for the way that he always looked at her when she took to begging him for necessities, and she didn’t like it at all.

She had just wanted to get away from him, to get a modicum of mercy from the occasionally benign skeleton.

She hadn’t meant to turn him on.

When she dared to meet his gaze again, having been staring, with dread, at the rise and fall of his barreled chest (he was panting heavily, like he had run a mile), he was still gawking, with shocked desire written plainly on his face, at her mouth, swaying unsteadily in place and hissing his breaths through gritted teeth.

He seemed to swallow, his jaw and cervical vertebrae shifting up and down, before speaking again, finally dragging his sockets away from her lips to meet her own eyes; he had never looked more diabolical…

Or more voracious.

“you… little _minx_ … are fuckin’ _lethal_ when you wanna be,” he managed to force out between his clenched fangs, hot breath fogging the shining surface of his golden canine, before his smirk returned to him; it was large and hungry, ready to devour.

“you want me to spare ya havin’ to finish cleanin’ up? alright… i can do that for you. they’d have just gotten dirty again in a few anyway,” he grated huskily, shuffling a step closer to her, and Frisk, trepidation crawling up her spine, scooted away from his approach cautiously, leaning away from him.

She really didn’t like where this was going…

“Wh… what would have gotten dirty?” she peeped, panicking and tripping over her words when he took another half step towards her to make up the ground he had lost, feeling a little like she was being stalked, and the salaciously leering monster towering over her barked out a harsh sounding laugh.

It was strident and rough, more like a growl than anything.

“my shorts, cocktease… shit gets messed up when you fuck on the floor,” he implied coarsely, magic flaring excitedly in his narrowed eye socket, and then Frisk was backpedaling frantically, eyes wide and movements jerky in her alarm.

This had to be his version of humor again, she thought desperately as she pulled herself backwards across the rough, uneven boards of the floor beneath her, battling the pull off the chain around her neck and the close pursuit of Sans both.

He wasn’t as inclined to puns as her Sans was, more apt to pulling cruel pranks (like the time he had “forgotten” to bring her a utensil and had stuck around an extra ten minutes to watch, snickering, while she ate the nearly frozen spaghetti with her hands); perhaps he found it funny to tease her with her very real fear of him touching her the way she had dreaded him considering.

It was unlikely, however, considering his behavior lately… and at the moment, he didn’t seem disposed to playing games.

He seemed more like a male that had only one thing on his mind.

Unfortunately for her (not that she could have retreated much farther; the shack was very small, and she had been close to literally backing herself into a corner), her pursuer quickly grew tired of chasing after her and stopped her retreat with a quick tug of the chain in his grasp, jerking it behind himself so he could approach and step into the cradle of her thighs.

He let out a chuckle at her expression of thwarted alarm, his tongue dripping lewdly from his teeth once again.

“don’t look so surprised, vixen… i told ya you’d pay for fuckin’ with me. i was just gonna have you suck me off, rub some salt in _that_ wound… but now that you wanna bang so bad that you’re beggin’ for it…” he informed her ardently, cruel amusement overtaking his features for a moment, but quickly reverted back to wanton lust, licking along his top line of teeth leisurely.

“who am i to turn away a lady in need?”

Sans wasted no time waiting for a response, reaching for her with a tense, clawed hand and a line of drool dripping from his teeth down his jaw, unable to contain his longing, but Frisk flinched backwards, raising one hand to wave wildly in front of her in denial.

“Wait! I’ll… I’ll do it! I’ll finish! I’m sorry, I’ll do whatever you want!” she blurted, desperate to fend him off, and Sans chuffed in mirth, seizing her extended wrist and using it to pull her back up to her knees.

“oh, i know you will, harlot… cuz you’re gonna spread those sexy legs for me so i can fuck you through the floor,” he growled lecherously, heat spiraling from his bones as his eagerness grew, and Frisk pulled against his bruising grip urgently, trembling and nearly hysterical.

What she would give for some LV right now… maybe any damage she did to him with a punch would do more than just piss him off.

“Please, no! I don’t want you, please…” she begged, frantic tears building in her eyes, and Sans smirked, his skeletal, clawed hand tightening.

“like hell you don’t. i’ve seen how you look at me, when you think i’m not watchin’… like you wanna jump me so bad you can barely stand it. don’t lie… you’re starvin’ for it, arentcha? desperate to get that sweet little pussy pounded…” he hissed gutturally, voice dipping into a baritone rumble, and his dirty suggestions shocked her, freezing her in place in mortification.

He had clearly seen her when she had spent the first week or so of her captivity staring at him with deep, invested interest, trying to find her old friend inside him somewhere; he had clearly misinterpreted her attention, but had _not_ misread the few, lonely looks she had shot him as time had dragged on, missing the monster that had loved her.

 _Shit_.

“I… no, I… I don’t… not you,” she stammered in excusal, haplessly trying to dissuade him from the thought that she wanted him but was overwhelmed by the situation and his domineering presence both, and though her discordant warbling had some effect on him, it was not the one she expected.

He grinned wider.

“not me, huh… then who, exactly, are ya seein’ when you look at me like you want my face buried between your legs, hmm? got yourself a _bone_ -friend up top?” he queried conversationally, inspecting the claws on the hand that held her chain, and Frisk shuddered, refusing to think of the abruptly vivid image (and consequentially missing the twist in his words).

What was he implying?

He didn’t seem to mind her silence, uncharacteristically, a haughty lift to his brow when he looked down on her cursorily.

“is it the so called “him” that you were bitchin’ about me bein’ nothin’ like? cuz if so… i’d have to say i must be a whole fuckin’ _lot_ like him, to get the looks i do from ya,” he observed very astutely, and Frisk, mind frantically trying to catch up with his inferences, felt something heavy drop into her stomach at the sight of keen knowledge on his arrogant face.

“so _much_ like him, in fact, that you could say he _was_ me, just a little… bluer.”

Mortification and an intense, unknown fear wracked Frisk’s entire body at his revelation; she’d known it would be a mistake to tell him anything about his alternate ego, that she wouldn’t be able to keep from speaking of him fondly, but he had forced it out of her.

She didn’t want to know what kind of connection he would make between her desire for his other self and himself, but she had no want to find out and as such redoubled her efforts to push his hand off of her wrist, stiff and trembling fingers prying ineffectively at his vice-like grasp.

Sans had no intention of letting her go, however, tightening his grip and making the bones in her wrist grind together (the pain made Frisk cry out, one of her pent up tears finally escaping to drip down her flushed cheek); he only gained more steam from the validation of her silent admittance, satisfaction glowing in his magic iris.

“so it _was_ him… did he know you looked at him like that? did he know you wanted his monster cock? hmm? or… did he give it to ya already? you already a skeleton fucker, slut?” he probed rabidly, clearly enjoying himself, but as he questioned further, there was something in his tone that made Frisk pause in her fight to get away from his hold and look up at him.

He sounded _too_ interested, his wording _too_ sharp and quick, and that usually meant that he was _livid_.

She had seen him angry enough times to know when he was pretending not to be, so when she met his narrowed eye sockets, she could tell that he was faking his wide smile and his playful interest, but she couldn’t fathom what had upset him.

He was winning wasn’t he?

That _always_ made his day… something else must be wrong.

She would have said, about anyone else, that he was actually _jealous_ , reacting with envy to the misguided idea that she had slept with the other Sans (not for lack of trying, of course), but she immediately dismissed the thought, scoffing.

That really wasn’t like him; he was just too uninterested in things like person to person relationships to care.

How very wrong she was.

One moment he was laughing ruefully at his own condescension, overtly pleased with his discovery and her subsequent humiliation, and the next he was snarling possessively, throwing her arm from his grasp and digging his sharp tipped fingers into her chin again, his shoulders trembling and anger bleeding red, volatile magic into his cheekbones.

“i asked you a fuckin’ _question_ , bitch! did you fuck him? huh? did you let that pussy ass bastard have what’s _mine_?!” he shouted harshly, his sudden rage stealing every ounce of temper from him, and wrenched the chain wrapped around his hand upwards, cutting off Frisk’s air supply.

She choked, fingers clawing at the collar crushing her windpipe and, at the same time, shaking her head frantically, the spite in her wanting to tell him that she had slept with the other skeleton hundreds of times (even though this was definitely not true; in fact, she and her Sans had only come close to that level of intimacy once, and had stopped long before anything happened) but knowing, in his current disposition, the enraged monster could very easily snap her neck if she said the wrong thing.

Now was definitely not the time to be snarky.

It was going to be very difficult to get out of this situation without being able to speak, but she’d have to do her best to dissuade him as she was quickly running out of air, and, determination flaring momentarily, Frisk guided her liquid filled, straining eyes to meet the fuming skeleton’s, reaffirming her innocence with another plaintive, erratic shake of her head, side to side.

He sneered at her jerky denial, however, bony brows beetling over his sockets severely while keeping his chokehold on her, his continually rising hand starting to lift her knees off the ground completely.

“ _liar._ i know what cock hungry whores look like… i bet you’ve been getting’ your cunt stuffed by him for years. what a fuckin’ _tramp_ … no wonder you were so eager to get my dick in your mouth; its been so _long_ since you had a cock in ya that you’ll take it however you can get it. filthy slut,” he growled covetously, one of his claws digging into her chin so hard that it punctured her skin, and with her pained, frightened tears leaking down her cheeks to join the warm trail of blood now dripping down her neck, Frisk shook her head again, gasping for breath numbly.

Her vision was starting to blur at the edges; if she couldn’t get him to calm down soon, she would asphyxiate.

Sans watched her struggle for air another moment, the seconds stretching into silence while she twisted helplessly on the rattling length of chain he held; his ire and frustration were palpable in the air between them, and he clearly didn’t believe any of her denials, if she could tell anything from the dubious lines his fury was digging into the malleable bone of his skull.

As such, Frisk was very surprised when she was dropped unceremoniously back to her knees, lungs filling almost painfully quickly with the cool, if a little stale, air in the shack.

She sucked greedy breaths in, extremely uncomfortable with his proclivity to denying her the ability to breathe tonight (she hoped this trend didn’t continue), but had her head forced back up again by the hand still grasping her chin.

Her wide, agonized eyes met his still manic, envious sockets; the upper line of his mouth rose into a disparaging sneer.

“i don’t believe for a fuckin’ _second_ that you didn’t fuck him, but ya know what? doesn’t fuckin’ matter. you’re never gonna see him again. you’re _mine_ now, and by the time i’m done with you tonight, you won’t remember what it felt like to have his cock in you,” he snapped viciously, his whole body trembling with his fluctuating tempers; he seemed unsure as to whether he wanted to hold on to his jealous rage or revert back to his animalistic lust.

His wide, flaring iris catching sight of the rivulet of blood on her neck seemed to decide for him, however; his angry grimace quickly transformed back into a wide grin of fervent desire, his clenched hand around her chin descending to run its index finger along the thin trail running down her tight neck muscles.

He raised the dripping scarlet finger to his mouth languidly and, holding her gaze, licked the blood from it; he shuddered at the taste, enjoying it if she could judge from the quiet moan that escaped him, then huffed out a ragged, carnal chuckle.

“oh yeah… that weak ass motherfucker never screwed you as good as i’m gonna,” he assured her with a low rumble of pure, undiluted hunger darkening his tone, and Frisk, clenching her jaw, felt her own temper flare at his dismissal of the monster she loved, his treatment of her and his assumption that she wasn’t going to fight back instantly setting her off.

Like hell was she just going to sit there and let him steal what she had meant to save for the other Sans.

Death be damned; she’d go down fighting.

" _Fuck you_ ," she snarled hoarsely, sitting up from her fearful slump, grabbing the chain attached to her neck, and pulling back on it with all her strength, but Sans barked a raucous laugh at her behavior, his smirk glinting predatorily in the wan light; his arm didn’t even move, though she was exerting all her might to try to jerk the chain from his grasp.

" _there’s_ my shit talkin’ bitch… figures you couldn’t play nice for long. you’re fuckin’ lucky i like dirty talk,” he jeered suggestively, yanking on the chain and dragging her knees painfully across the floor when she tried to hold her ground; he smirked at her fruitless resistance, reaching out and running the backs of his finger bones down her cheek roughly in a facsimile of a loving caress.  

“don’t worry, my thirsty little skank… i’ll give you whatcha need," he assured her, a look of such heat and desire taking over his mocking derision that Frisk froze in place, staring up at him in shock.

He looked so much like _him_ , like her Sans, like the last time she had seen him (he had kissed her passionately under a crescent moon as they had lain together watching a meteor shower, one of his hands buried under her shirt and one of hers thrust down the front of his jeans; they would have had sex, she _knew_ , if he hadn’t insisted that their first time not be in a field) that she was unable to look away, unable to keep herself from remembering and hoping and wishing for the monster that she hadn’t dared to dream of seeing again.

She almost whispered his name before the evil shade of what was left of her almost lover backhanded her so hard she blacked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading guys, and any comments, feedback, or whatnot is appreciated!


	3. Green Eyed Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “let me make somethin’ very fuckin’ clear, buttercup,” he hissed, and bucked his leg against her again (an uncomfortably pleasant heat twinged in her abdomen at the contact, the friction forcing her to bury her face harder into her arm to avoid him hearing her yelp of arousal), fangs bared threateningly. 
> 
> “you may’ve been his in your world, but you were mine the second you fell here. your soul belongs to me, your body belongs to me… your sweet little pussy belongs to me, and i do whatever the fuck i want with my property, bitch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, it's been almost a month T-T I've had this one done for a little while, and was gonna post it when I had the next one done, because I fudged again and wrote too much and didn't get to the smut... I'm so sorry. But I won't make you wait any more for at least a little reading material, more to come soon, I swear. And by soon I may mean awhile T-T I am a very slow writer.
> 
> Anybody present not legal? If you said yes, go away. I won't be responsible for corrupting you.

* * *

Frisk couldn’t have been out long, because when she came blearily to, her head throbbing in time to her thundering heart, stars were still floating in front of her eyes, her body slumping bonelessly as she was flipped over onto her front with the toe of Sans’s shoe (he had an awful penchant for always finding her stomach when he did that), her collar chain shifting loose and free on the ground beside her head with a metallic series of clinks.

She stared uncomprehendingly at the abandoned restraint for a moment, blinking slowly and licking idly at a trail of blood that was leaking from her lower lip (he must have cut it when he slapped her; her jaw ached, where he had made contact), before realizing what it meant.

He had dropped the chain.

She wasn’t attached to anything.

Frisk froze contemplatively, glancing furtively over at the still open cage door and the unbarred shed exit beyond that.

If she was quick, she could make for the door, and perhaps even escape into the storm beyond.

Sans was a powerful, variously talented monster, with magical abilities ranging from teleportation to manipulation of gravity to the summoning of eldritch creatures from the void, but if he couldn’t see her in the blizzard, didn’t know her exact location, he couldn’t flash to where she was; she could hide until morning (or when the mosses on the cavern ceiling relit themselves, rather), then make a run for Waterfall.

As long as she stayed off the main roads and laid low, she could avoid him.

Probably.

Mind made up for the most part, Frisk glanced over to where Sans had strolled (he was behind her, staring down at her prone form in stony silence with a look of indecision on his face, brows furrowed and sockets dim; what was he thinking about?), tensing for her sprint, then pushed up off the ground with locked arms as quickly as she was able, dirty ballet flats scrabbling for purchase on the wooden floorboards.

Unfortunately, Sans was quicker.

With debatably unnecessary force, his foot came down on the center of her back and slammed her against the ground, her teeth clacking together after biting into and reopening the wound in her lower lip, her chin hitting the floor and sending splinters digging into her flesh.

A rasping yelp of pain tore from her blood flecked lips, and Sans grinned, one skeletal hand rising from his side slowly, magic sparking at his fingertips.

A flash of bright red lit the room, sending unsettling shadows dancing across the walls, and around her wrists, a pair of glowing, see through shackles appeared, clamping tight against her skin and pulling her arms out straight in front of her before securing her hands to the ground.

Frisk, stymied and aching and shamefaced (she thought she’d make it at least as far as the cage door), pulled at the shackles experimentally, heart sinking when they didn’t budge.

Shit… she hasn’t ever dealt with red magic in combat… how did it work?

Behind her, Sans let out an amused sounding snort as he watched her struggle against her new bonds, sliding his foot up her back to rest between her shoulder blades (her knitted dress bunched with the drag of his shoe, sliding the material up over her hips) and pushing her chest flat against the rough floorboards. 

“you’re a quick one, sugar… can’t have ya runnin’ off before the main event, though. i’d hate to leave you… _un-sans-isfied_ ,” he snickered deviously, clearly proud of himself (she grimaced at the pun, unused to him using them; what was with him tonight?), and Frisk, beating back her pain and ignominy, gritted her teeth and tried to push back against the pressure of his foot.

She did her best to ignore it, but still nervously noted the slide of her dress up her back, the cool air in the room leeching all the warmth from her before covered skin and sending tingling tremors of icy awareness across her damp, thinly covered thighs.

Was he doing that on purpose?

“Get _off_ me,” she snapped when her struggling got her nowhere, trying to sound firm but hearing, with an inward wince, her nervousness slip into her tone (god, she just sounded _scared_ …), and Sans, an ironic twist to his smirk, tsked his otherworldly tongue against the backs of his pointed fangs, the flat of his sneaker sole pressing harder into her spine pointedly.

“it’s real cute that you think you can tell me what to do, and as much as i like your spirit… you’re gonna wanna watch your fuckin’ tone before we start havin’ problems,” he warned pleasantly, as though remarking on the weather, in an oddly good mood for his personality (her stomach churned, uneasiness scraping at the back of her mind), but, caution thrown to the winds, Frisk scoffed in response, spitting a line of bloody saliva onto the floor beside where her chin was forced against the ground.

“Or what? You’ll kill me? Good; do it,” she goaded, bravado rearing in her chest.

She was being foolish, and she knew it, but she was getting tired of his threats and his arrogance and his snide quips, his insistence that she subjugate herself and his constant ego trips.

Calling him on a bluff would be more than satisfying… it may even get him to leave her alone.

Much to her consternation, however, instead of backing off or acknowledging her challenge or even getting upset (she hadn’t wanted that particular endpoint, but it was a distinct possibility, given his short temper), Sans only chuckled, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets and leaning over her prone form leisurely, unhurried and unperturbed; the weight on her back grew heavier with his shifting center of balance, making it a little harder to breathe as her chest compressed.

Her fractured ribs screamed at her, berating her for her stupidity; her eyes watered, filling with pained tears.

Wincing from the ache, Frisk watched his descent from the corner of her eye cagily, unable to turn her head much more due to her position; the glimpse she got of his haughty, seductive smirk still sent a shiver of trepidation up her spine, his conviction of his superiority clear on his face.

“no, bitch, i ain’t gonna kill ya; changed my mind. nah… if you keep talkin’ back to me, the only thing you’ll get to eat tonight is what you can suck from my dick,” he snarked, vulgar and unabashed and openly laughing as an expression of scandalized horror gave rise to an appalled flush on Frisk’s cheeks; her bravery left her very quickly, in the wake of his uncaring and lascivious reply, leaving her puffed chest feeling more than a little hollow.

Swallowing back the retort she had been rolling around in her mind, Frisk instead turned her eyes to the splinters protruding from the floorboard next to her face in mute meekness, clenching her fists in their bonds but saying nothing.

If she didn’t react to him… maybe he would get bored and think she wasn’t worth his time.

Yes, she thought, face as emotionless as she could make it despite the rush of cool air that rustled teasingly across the wetness between her legs; if she didn’t give him what he wanted, if she ignored him and numbed herself, even when he touched her and mocked her…

When he… had sex with her…

Frisk nearly choked on her own breath at the thought of that possibility, unable to consider the very real likelihood that she may be sleeping with the monster standing over her regardless of her position.

It seemed just… impossible, unthinkable, that anything like that could happen to her, especially at the hands of a monster she had once known and loved.

She knew it wasn’t _him_ , remembered vividly all that this Sans had done to her and laughed while doing it… knew he only saw her as a pawn, a means to an end, a _toy_ that he could play with and break and then discard.

But rape her?

Frisk had to forcefully hold herself still to keep the sob rising in her throat down, suppressing, with all her might, the shiver of dread that wracked her body.

She had not thought him capable of such an atrocity, in any form; her Sans had not always been necessarily nice, had told her, once (it felt like so long ago, but couldn’t have been more than a few months), that he used to use female monsters for sex to stave off his loneliness, while trapped in the Underground.

He had never had sex with anyone he felt anything for; he had said, with the lights in his sockets boring into her wide eyes sincerely, that she would be the first and only.

That she mattered to him, and that he wanted it to be special, to be for _her_ , to be a memory of love that lasted forever.

And now he wanted to destroy it, destroy _her_.

She knew that was unfair, that her Sans wouldn’t hurt her even to save his own life… this iteration of him was to blame for her treatment and her fear and her current situation.

That knowledge didn’t stop the prickling resentment that tortured her soul every moment that she was forced to bear the heavy hand of her tormentor.

She had stopped hoping that this was all some cruel joke, some demented delusion that she would wake up from, that she would recover from in his arms, warm with affection and love and a tenderness she craved.

She had stopped counting the times she had wished for the door to the shack to burst open to reveal her oldest friend and almost lover, _her_ Sans, his terrifying blue magic cracking in the frigid air, come to save her from her nightmare at last.

She had stopped dreaming, because she had exhausted her pleas for relief, and grown tired of the silence that answered.

No one came, when she called, and it had nearly broken her.

He hadn’t come when she had cried out for him in the night, alone and scared and desperate for comfort.

He hadn’t come when the monster holding her prisoner had beaten her senseless, had hurt her and threatened her and touched her…

He wasn’t coming now, when she was about to lose everything she had wanted to give to him.

Frisk knew, in the deepest part of her heart that this demon would never break, that her Sans would have come if he could, would have done all in his power to help her if he knew what was happening to her (she had to believe it… he had always come before, protecting her from everything that he could, whether it be bees or awkward situations or that one boy that had followed her home a few times).

It almost hurt worse, knowing she was beyond his reach and influence.

She had never been able to save herself (clearly evidenced by her lackluster escape attempt of moments before), always relying on the help and protection of her friends and family to survive; she was too weak and merciful and goddamn kind for her own good, and that had landed her here…

Eons away from a love and a monster that no longer existed.

Frisk felt broken, finally bereft of any hope; she felt a sliver of pain worm its way into the core of her being, vitality draining from her body like water through a sieve.

This… _this_ is what it felt like to die of heartbreak…

 _No_.

That long lost driving force, _determination_ , the magic that fueled her existence, flooded her flagging soul, hardening her wounded heart and reminding her that not all was lost.

She remembered her Sans, remembered _everything_ ; anytime a timeline was gone for good, the details would blur at the edges, like a pool disturbed by ripples, things changing with the slightest stirring of the water.

She would forget large swaths of time, only remembering some things through repetition or strong emotion; she remembered, still, the feeling of spears through her soul, lasers slicing into her flesh, and the thumping beat of techno music reverberating over her broken body.

She had died and reset so many times in the spiders’ caves that she could barely stand the touch of webs to her skin anymore, and, occasionally, just the sight of yellow flowers made her breath draw short in her throat, hazy visions of blooms coated with her own blood sending her into a panic.

Those rarely thought of moments were nothing to the visions she sometimes had of Sans, though.

She had nightmares, now and then, of the judgement hall in Asgore’s castle, darkened by rips in the fabric of the world… a knife quivered in her fist, in those dreams (why? She had never used the knives she found in the Underground…), the furious flare of blue fire in her old friend’s sockets reflecting her guilt ridden face back at her.

She saw the scenes as though through the eyes of another, third person and floating, disembodied, through the wreckage of broken tile and skeletal demon heads and spatters of blood; she felt the pain of every blow, though, screamed when she came in contact with the white hot bursts of magic that he summoned, cried out for mercy when he slammed her against the walls and floor with his power, sobbed when he cursed her existence, when he blamed her for having to do this to her.

Died, a hundred times over, with blue bones protruding from her back.

She hated those dreams, and never thought of them if she could help it; she had never told anyone, not even Sans, that she had thoughts like that, afraid of what it could mean…

The feeling that she had deserved every moment of that torture terrified her.

Sans had tried to explain the phenomenon of her resets to her once, multiverse theory and space-time and wormholes and something about strings all muddled together in her mind (science had never been her forte, gravitating more naturally to the arts); he didn’t like to talk about them, the universes left behind, so she never found out much more than that.

But she understood the fundamentals, how her mind would naturally acclimate to a new world and forget the last, as it was no longer a realm she could visit again.

She had forgotten nothing, though, this time, from the small things (the smell of butterscotch cinnamon pie, the eerily grinning, melted figure in the black cave that she had seen only once, the feeling of Sans’s bony lips on the back of her hand) to the large, world altering things (clinging to Sans’s jacket and sobbing as he told her how many times he had given up, saving Asriel, the love that her mother had given her for so many years) …

It wasn’t over; the other world must still exist… there must be a way back to him.

New resolve firmed her quivering soul and quieted the panic that shook her body; she would make it through this, no matter what he did to her.

She would be strong, she would live through this night, and she would get back home.

As such, when Frisk rose, triumphant, from the depths of her despair, she kept quiet, back pridefully straight and heart resilient.

She wouldn’t give Sans the satisfaction of breaking her.

Sans took her stony silence, however, as compliance with his overbearing and salacious demand, grinning triumphantly in his position over her.

“that’s what i fuckin’ thought,” he crowed, inordinately pleased with himself and his seemingly successful intimidation (she sneered, within; laugh while you can, fucker), and spent another few seconds chuckling gloatingly before, with an unpleasant glint in his burning gaze, he bent downwards, withdrawing a hand from his pocket and extending it behind himself to wrap his clawed fingers around the bunched hem of her dress.

The backs of his finger bones brushed the skin of her lower back, sending a shock of awareness up her spine; she didn’t move a muscle, refused to acknowledge the touch of him against her flesh, but was acutely chary, mind focused almost entirely on the point of contact.

“now, if you’re done wastin’ time complainin’, we can get on with the fuckin’ show,” Sans leered, ivory eyelids lowered complacently, and abruptly pulled upwards on the hand he had clenched in the fabric of her skirt, dragging her knees across the ground and lifting her posterior into the frigid air, exposed but for the thin material of her hardly adequate leggings, which bore witness to her unfortunate arousal with large patches of wetness that dripped down her inner thighs from her suddenly much cooler center (hidden only by the darkness of the shadows clinging to the inside of the shed).

All the color left Frisk’s cheeks, mind warily noting the implication of her compromised situation (she was practically presenting herself, in this position, her back curved low and her thighs spread wantonly) and breaths wafting from her parted lips in short, strained bursts; she immediately tried to scoot her legs together, to gain back some modicum of control.

Sans didn’t think much of that.

Feeling her movement through her body, the domineering skeleton growled at her threateningly, the foot that had held her torso down lifting and then slamming, warningly and discouragingly, between her spread legs.

“i don’t fuckin’ think so, sweetcheeks; i like you just like _that_ … so don’t you move,” he huffed rancorously, shifting his posture audibly to regain his suddenly changed balance; he pressed his knee just a little too close to the apex of her legs, as he moved, the hem of his shorts brushing passingly against her upper thigh and making her flinch away reflexively.

Her skin was alive with the electrified awareness of just how bad this situation was, how near the pair of bones that comprised his lower leg were to making contact with her body; the last thing she wanted was to continue to be bent over in front of him, but if she moved to escape again, given how she was bound to the ground and inches from rubbing against the unbelievably warm surface of his leg (she could feel the circulation of his magic through her leggings, the clash of the heat of him and the cool of the night air on her unfortunately wet thighs making her head spin), she would be forced to touch him, most likely pushing herself against his leg just like she was trying to avoid.

She wanted that even less than to stay like she was, so she kept as still as she could, wishing that her spine could bend more so that she could scoot forward even a little bit.

This left her kneeling with her ass in the air in front of a decidedly excited and aroused monster, though, his flaring, magical iris trailing heatedly on her exposed skin and minutely trembling legs; with a cruel snicker, he flicked the knitted hem of her dress from his fingers, leaving it to pool around her midriff.

Sans looked over her posture once more, gaze lingering on the stitching of her underwear that could be clearly seen through her leggings, before flicking his sockets up to meet Frisk’s wide, tentatively watchful stare, his smile broad and mocking.

“that’s pretty damn nice… i’ve always liked seein’ you on your knees, though, so no real surprise there. you look so comfortable, too, all spread out for me… you must be used to this,” he observed disparagingly, flicking the tip of his tongue between his teeth in a flash of scarlet mysticism; he hiked a bony brow over one socket, languidly smug and allusive.

“my little whore like gettin’ fucked like this?”

Shame and irritation reared in Frisk’s chest, in response to his words, the reality that she _did_ seem to like this (the chill of the shack was not diminishing the heat between her legs, seeming to only be sparked higher) warring with her firm belief that only _she_ got to decide who she belonged to, instantly disavowing any claim that she did not freely give.

He may turn her on against her will, but that meant nothing; she did _not_ belong to him, and never would.

“I am _not_ yours, I am _his_ , and you can’t treat me like this,” she snarled, again pulling insistently against her bonds (she may as well try; she’d have to learn the rules of red magic eventually), and above her, freezing in place, Sans’s grin fell into a thwarted grimace, his sockets narrowing dangerously.

Catching his expression change from the corner of her eye, Frisk swallowed heavily, pausing in her escape attempt as a sliver of dread sank into her stomach.

He had been acting very strangely every time she mentioned the other Sans tonight… had been since he had started approaching her sexually, now that she thought about it.

In fact, most often nowadays, it seemed, he only really hurt her when she started talking about her Sans, his pathological need for her veneration and submissiveness falling to a far second when it came to his vehement passions.

She hadn’t thought him introspective enough to even be capable of _being_ jealous (because that was definitely what this was; him nearly choking her to death only minutes ago testified to that), before tonight…

But that wasn’t necessarily true, was it?

With a rush of perspective, she suddenly remembered the third time he had touched her inappropriately, only a few days ago; she had shouted at him, defending her Sans’s gentle nature (he had been mocking his other self for his proclivity to avoid fights), and when she had said that she loved that about him, his fragile temper had snapped.

He had pushed her face first into the wall, smashing his body against her back and growling his angry demand for her to shut her fucking mouth into her ear; his fingers had yanked at the handful of her hair in his grasp roughly, tilting her head so her throat pressed against his sharp teeth, his hipbones digging into her ass from behind.

He had held her there for almost five minutes, breathing heavily and occasionally snarling obscenities against her skin (“such a fuckin’ whore… don’t even know who ya fuckin’ belong to… gonna fuckin’ regret it if you don’t learn pretty damn fast…”), his free hand digging into her hip, before finally dragging her away from the wall and shoving her to the floor, taking two steps back and glaring at her with what she now recognized as blatant jealousy, his magic skittering across his bones haphazardly as he clenched and relaxed his fists, clearly repressing even more violence.

He had snapped at her to watch what she said about “that waste of fuckin’ space” in front of him before securing her neck chain to the wall (much tighter than he had been; she hadn’t been able to reach her bundle of filthy blankets to sleep that night) and storming out of the shack.

The remembrance stunned her, before seeing only his inappropriateness and lust but now, with his frequent explosions of envy tonight (was that why he had been so angry when he kicked her earlier? Because she had compared him with her Sans again?), realizing that he actually felt like he had a right to his jealousy.

It mystified her, to think that he would be so envious of her having a relationship with someone other than himself.

Her Sans had never acted like this, had never been so obsessed with having her to himself that he would lose his mind when she even mentioned another male; technically, she hadn’t even been with anyone besides him since she was thirteen (she’d fallen in love pretty quickly), so he hadn’t really had a reason… to…

Well… besides the time that she had made out with the bodybuilding monster from Waterfall.

Frisk’s brows furrowed at the faded memory, almost forgotten; she wasn’t sure how she had managed to forget it, as the remembrance of what he had done had completely occupied her mind for months after it had happened.

She couldn’t have been more than sixteen, at the time, but had been so in love with Sans that she had been consumed with thoughts of him all day, every day, eating up any and all the attention he would give her.

He had spurned all of her efforts to get him to notice her as a woman, though (Frisk snorted, inwardly; she had been so immature), almost preternaturally talented at avoiding her flirtations, and, like the petulant, selfish child that she had been, frustrated by her still new and confusing hormones and her thwarted love, she had sought the affections of someone else after another day of fruitless seducing, someone that had never been shy to acknowledge that she had grown quite a lot since her days in the Underground.

Aaron had made sure she knew he appreciated that growth, but she hadn’t felt right, being with him; she had enjoyed kissing him (by no means her first kiss; she had been a smooching fiend, in her younger days), but he wasn’t Sans, and she _hadn’t_ liked when he put his hands under her shirt.

She had practically run, after he had done that, the speed he had gone with her extremely uncomfortable.

Sans had been uncharacteristically intense when she had come to the skeleton brothers’ apartment late that night (it was game night, and their turn to host), glaring at her from across the room and snapping at everyone that talked to him; he had gotten her alone the second he had a chance, cornering her in the dark hallway outside his bedroom, and demanded to know where she had been with ice layering his voice.

Her stuttering, shamefaced excuse (“I was just at the gym, let time get away from me…”) hadn’t satisfied him, and she’d known why when he had backed her against the wall, stepped closer to her than he had in a long time, and reached out to touch an angry red mark standing out on her neck where Aaron had sucked at her throat, his face darkening in the already shadowy expanse of the hallway.

He had growled at her, the first time she could ever remember him doing so, had told her that he could smell a male’s scent on her, and had cursed in his then mysterious anger, demanding to know what the _fuck_ she thought she was doing, letting some piece of trash touch her.

She hadn’t been able to speak, her heart pounding in her throat, but he had had plenty to say, caging her against the wall with his arms and whispering in the darkness about how angry he was that she had kissed Aaron (he had known, without even asking; did monsters have distinct scents?), that she had let him make a mark on her, and had snarled, animalistic, when telling her that he could smell the other monster’s scent under her clothes.

He had asked, his breath hot on her skin and his tone so hard and cold that she had shivered in very real fear, if she had had sex with him.

Frisk had gotten angry then, snapping that she wasn’t that cheap and reaching out to push him away, but he had caught her wrist in his hand, dragging her against the front of his soft jacket and, lingeringly, licking up the side of her neck, erasing the red mark on her throat with a burst of magic and leaving behind a glowing blue trail on her skin.

His free hand had taken her chin and tilted her head to the side, then, and his teeth had pressed against the curve between her shoulder and neck, their edges sharper than she had ever realized as he had hovered over her, his breath heavy and the kindled magic in his narrowed eye socket blazing; he had growled again, telling her how badly he wanted to bite down, how much he wanted to mark her so no other male would ever touch her again.

She was _his_ , he had murmured heatedly as magic had tingled against her skin, and he wouldn’t let her be stolen from him.

He had drawn back, though, and let his magic die, muttering an apology for his behavior and rubbing her sore wrist regretfully between his hands before releasing her; he had seemed to shrink in on himself, and begged her not to do that to him again, to never let him see her if she had just been with someone else, and had then retreated, possessiveness still burning in his eyes.

He had explained the occurrence as best he could the next day, after he had disappeared into his room for the rest of the night.

He knew she was frustrated with him, and that he didn’t show that he was attracted to her (which he was, he had assured her, his eyes glowing heatedly and his perpetual grin sharpening for a moment when he lowered his gaze to her lips), but it was for her own good that he didn’t, he had informed her; she was too young, too inexperienced, and knew so little about the ways of men and sex, that he didn’t trust himself with her, not even to hug her for too long...

He was afraid he would get carried away and hurt her.

It was more than that that kept him at bay though, he had insisted when she had started to protest; among monsters, there was a phenomenon, known as soul mating, that made their magic go haywire and made primal instincts surface when around another person whose soul echoed their own.

It was by no means rare, but it _was_ a very limited occurrence in a monster’s life, and sometimes took hundreds of years to encounter (his eyes had grown faraway, at those words, wistful and lonely).

He had gone on to explain that most soul matings, when accepted by both parties, began with a mark, a physical sign of a claim made on each other (a bite, for example, he had said with a blue flush on his cheekbones, though jewelry was more often used in this day and age), went through ceremonial steps called a courtship, lasting between a few months to over a decade, and ended with soul bonding, an intimate process which entailed the trading of magic between two souls (only able to be done when the partners trusted and loved each other completely, which was why courting sometimes took so long), and after two beings soul bonded, they would almost always be together for life.

He had admitted to her, that day, that his soul resonated with hers, that he loved her to the very depths of his being, and wanted to be with her desperately; he had been driven almost insane by the scent of another man on her, possessiveness boiling from him very uncharacteristically, and he was very sorry for scaring her, but he couldn’t be sure that he’d be able to control himself if it happened again.

That was why he had asked her to stay away, if she wanted to be with someone else… he had literally wanted to track down and kill Aaron last night, in his instinctive jealousy.

He had hurt her, in his anger, had said awful things… had almost marked her without her permission, and as badly as he wanted her to himself… he would rather her be free than forced to stay against her will.

He wanted her to experience life and love, not necessarily with him, he had claimed (the grit of his teeth had said otherwise), didn’t want to tie her down to a commitment of that magnitude unless she was sure it was what she wanted, but if she did find she wanted him, _and_ understood the gravity of the decision that came with being with him, the second she was old enough, he would welcome her.

He had left it at that, too, never touched her inappropriately or did anything beyond occasionally share a meaningful glance with her, until a moonlit night four months before her nineteenth birthday, when she had finally, at long last, wheedled a kiss out of him (and damn, what a kiss it had been; she could still feel the way his hands had felt, digging into her hair and pressing into her lower back, the way his dexterous tongue could wrap around hers).

She still didn’t completely understand what that kind of relationship entailed, as Sans had taken things excruciatingly slowly with her once they had started becoming intimate (he hadn’t even marked her yet; he had said he was saving money to get her a special bracelet, imbued with magic, because he didn’t want to hurt her), and he hadn’t told her much more than what he did when she was sixteen (he had said he intended to explain everything before they slept together, but hadn’t had a chance to before the reset… or whatever this was), but Frisk, in the here and now, was drawing parallels, seeing similarities, and with her new insight, she, wide eyed, connected the dots.

This Sans had wanted to mark her.

She could still feel his fangs against her neck, how he had seemed to have to force himself to push her away… how jealous he would get when she talked about a male besides him…

She wished, suddenly, that she knew more about monster mating rituals.

As odd a thought as it was, at least she would know how to deal with, or at least rebuff, the advances of this particular creature; it would answer a lot of questions in the same motion.

Did he share the same soul resonance as her Sans?

Was he her soulmate too?

Did he mean to… to claim her tonight?

Removing herself from her remembrances and glancing warily back up at the flighty skeleton standing over her (she had some damage control to run, and couldn’t dawdle considering things she didn’t understand all day), she saw that covetous ire had plainly overtaken his features, in the wake of her claim, dark possession dropping his expression into menacing ire, and his visible fist had clenched reflexively, twitching like he wanted to use it on something.

Frisk shrank down closer to the floor, by now instinctual fear of his violence pushing her into self-preservation mode; he definitely was acting in line with his usual behavior when provoked into jealousy…

To a point, that was.

By now he would’ve usually started hitting or yelling at her, but instead was just standing there, breathing deeply through his nasal cavity.

He baffled her yet again when he let a shaky breath out through his enviously clenched teeth, squeezed his eye sockets shut, and stuffed his balled hand back into his jacket pocket, a tight, strained looking smile overcoming his ire.

Frisk stared, from her nervous prostration, not daring to believe that he had calmed so easily; she had been expecting, at the very least, an extra beating for her impertinence.

He seemed to truly have pacified himself, though, because he maintained his assumed cool when he reopened his eye sockets, his anger all but gone (his smile was definitely a false one, though, tinged with a dubious sort of complacency) and his chin dipping in a mysterious nod of self-acknowledgement.

A grudging sense of relief shone gratitude through her stressed mind, in the aftermath of his seeming forgiveness; she risked to hope, for a fleeting moment, that she had miscalculated, that he didn’t care that she had mentioned her Sans, that she was looking too far into the matter and was being paranoid.

She had been right to be suspicious, though, because his fabricated control was exactly that; above her, Sans huffed out a humorless chuckle, his shoulders tight and stiff, and raised his blistering gaze back to meet hers from where he had been staring, unmoving, at her left shoulder.

There was jealousy yet, in his burning iris, and a steely resolve that made panic rise in her mind.

Frisk swallowed thickly, and attempted to keep her heart from beating out of her chest; she had to stay aloof, she reminded herself as she shrank minutely under Sans’s heavy gaze, no matter what he did now… she wouldn’t let him manipulate and use her, and was ready for anything he could give.

And she _was_ ready, if a little jumpy: she had braced her mind, ready for him to beat her, touch her body, take from her what didn’t belong to him.

What she wasn’t prepared for, however, was for him to slide the foot he had planted back on the floor forward to jam his shin between her legs.

A shock of awareness raced through Frisk, the sudden, rough contact of his searing bones pressing invasively against her sopping crotch almost ripping an audible reaction from her; she quickly buried her face in her shoulder, luckily muffling the groan of surprised stimulation that was forced from her against her dress sleeve.

Sans sneered derisively, in his new posture, bony upper lip lifting over his gold canine; his flat, angry glare intensified, gaze narrowing and magical manifestation flaring.

“let me make somethin’ very fuckin’ clear, _buttercup_ ,” he hissed, and bucked his leg against her again (an uncomfortably pleasant heat twinged in her abdomen at the contact, the friction forcing her to bury her face harder into her arm to avoid him hearing her yelp of arousal), fangs bared threateningly.

“you may’ve been his in your world, but you were _mine_ the second you fell here. your soul belongs to me, your body belongs to me… your sweet little pussy belongs to _me_ , and i do whatever the _fuck_ i want with my property, bitch,” he snarled, now repeatedly rubbing the length of his thick fibula along the seam of her thighs crudely, and Frisk, stubbornly biting into the torn flesh of her lower lip, muffled another whimper of pleasure as best she could, eyes squeezed shut obstinately.

She hated that anything he did felt good, hated it passionately, and refused to let him know it; she would never hear the end of it if she did, and having him aware of her arousal, in any form, would be detrimental, especially right now.

She couldn’t take the chance of him thinking she wanted him, of him trying to claim her, if that was what was going on at all (she was so confused, her mind splitting in seven different directions; the way his bone was gliding against her wetness was very distracting).

If she could get out of this without him knowing what he did to her, she could live with her own internalized shame at reacting to him the way she did.

While she was successful in her efforts to soften her moans, she neglected to pay attention to anything her tormentor was saying, too preoccupied with her struggle with her own pleasure, and as such drew Sans’s attention to her out of character silence inexplicably.

He stilled, eyeing Frisk’s stiff shoulders, straight back, and veiled face with interest; he had clearly been expecting an adverse reaction, and was intrigued by her muteness.

Curious, he bucked his shin against her again, and grinned sharply when she tensed, his previous irritation fleeing him in the wake of lascivious conquest, not needing a vocal affirmation to tell him what she was feeling. 

“heh… enjoyin' ourselves, are we?” he chuckled, deliberately shifting his leg back and forth against her covered folds, and Frisk curled tighter into herself, biting roughly into the matted yarn of her sleeve as shivers of stimulation rocked her core, trying her damnedest to suppress the arduous cry of pleasure that surfaced in her throat but, humiliatingly, failing dismally.

She felt, distantly (she had little mind to spare it, as she was currently occupied with being mortified), his shin quiver against her center, and heard, above her, a groan emit from the skeleton monster harassing her, guttural and licentious.

Blearily, Frisk cracked an eye open to glance back at Sans, and found him staring at her face with his jaw hanging open, his magic flaring brightly and scattering rays of crimson light through the small, decrepit room.

“that’s fuckin’ _sexy_ ,” he panted, moving his shin to rock against her again in obvious rapture, as though in a trance; every sound he drew from her seemed to enflame him further, and made him rub his leg against her increasingly wet and sensitive skin harder.

He continued his assault on her senses enthusiastically, tongue falling from behind his teeth to drape lewdly over the edge of his carnal grin.

“barely touchin’ ya and you sound like that… can’t wait to hear what you sound like with my dick buried in your cunt,” he grunted raggedly, then, seeming to be hit with inspiration, let his smile grow even wider, devilish mischief in his fiery iris.

“you a screamer?”

Shame crawled, hot and cloying, up Frisk’s cheeks at his implication, and she scoffed as best she could around another unwilling moan (he hadn’t stopped rubbing her through her leggings, and her abdomen was starting to tighten; she begged any god that may be listening to not let her cum from this beast’s ministrations), glaring at what she could see of his face resentfully.

“I hate you,” she retorted, and, for a moment, she thought she saw him frown, thought she saw a shadow pass over his face, but then it was gone, replaced by a dismissive snort and an uncaring shrug.

“oh, i know ya do, skank. that’s alright… it’ll just make the sex hotter,” he assured her, grinding his leg between hers again (and grinning wolfishly at the shuddering gasp he received in return) before sliding his foot back, away from their contact point.

In the aftermath of her mind boggling experience of only moments ago (her legs were trembling, the tightening spring in her core burning with the need for release; she had only ever touched herself like that, never had someone else do it, and _god_ …), Frisk had an insane moment of vain hope, thinking, perhaps, her plan had worked and that he had gotten bored and would now leave her alone and go off into the night like he always did.

She should have known better than that though, because only seconds later, Sans used the foot outside the cradle of her thighs to kick a wider space between them, spreading her unwilling stance, then dropped to his knees behind her heavily, his body suddenly too hot and too large and _too close_ to hers.

He wasted no time with formality, either, in his new position; his large, skeletal hands instantly descended on the curve of her ass, cupping her flesh and spreading his long phalanges as far as he could, flaming gaze riveted to his hands’ new perch.

Frisk’s back shot ramrod straight at the intimate contact, her breath catching in her throat and her awareness rapt to the warmth leaking through her leggings from his bones; no, no, no, this was too surreal…

She had been struggling with identity issues concerning him all night, despite how discernably different her Sans was from him, and here was another conundrum, springing unwanted from her memory and forcing itself into her brain and under her skin.

Despite knowing it wasn’t _him_ , despite all the pain she was in and the tight pressure of her bonds and the difference in the force of his hands, she still felt, under the weight of his embrace, the monster that had first touched her like this, that had pressed her body to his with his hands spread across the expanse of her ass (she had been straddling him on the couch, a surprise attack on her part while he was watching TV), his tongue sliding, warm and wicked, alongside hers as he bucked his hips up into hers…

The juxtaposition was driving her insane, forcing her body to respond against her will, and Frisk, struggling against her own reactions, resisted the urge to cry with all her might, hating the stringent need in her still trembling abdomen that plead with her to lean back into the skeleton’s touch.

The desire only deepened when Sans’s invading hands, separated from her bare skin only by the thin, worn fabric of her leggings, squeezed the captured flesh of her posterior roughly; her traitorous core twitched responsively, practically begging for his attention.

A sob tried to fight its way past her lips, the injustice of her situation stinging her pride, but she held it back mulishly, firming her resolve; he would love that more than the fact that he could force her to feel pleasure.

She wouldn’t give in.

So, fighting all her body’s reactions and instincts (her inner walls had clenched deliciously when Sans had let out a quiet sound of appreciation after clutching her ass), Frisk leaned away from his grasping hands as far as she could, baring her teeth in a feral snarl.

“Don’t touch me!” she warned, struggling to twist away from him and his touch, but was immediately thwarted when he slid one of his hands up to clamp forcefully on her hip, holding her in place almost immovably ( _god_ , he was strong… she forgot sometimes).

She didn’t give up though, trying to throw him off of her by bucking her hips wildly, but froze on the spot when, with a loud slap and stinging, humiliating pain, his before missing hand came down, _hard_ , across the soft expanse of her ass, the surprise and degradation forcing a pained yelp from her.

Sans sniggered at her reaction, his momentary irritation at her resistance vanishing to allow his satisfaction to surface, and replaced his hand on the fullness of her posterior pointedly, squeezing where he had hit her hardest and relishing the pained whimper he got in response.

“you don’t get to tell me what to do, princess. i’ll touch you whenever i want… _however_ i want,” he informed her caustically, sliding forward on his knees as he did; the hand that grasped her hip tightly pulled her backwards against him in the same motion, settling the curve of her ass against his pelvis with a knowing smirk.

A choked gasp escaped Frisk at the contact, the rough material of his shorts scratching at her leggings; she could feel, through their clothing, the heavy length of his cock pressed against her wet, sensitive center, throbbing and hard and unwelcome.

Panic set in despite everything she had told herself, none of her self-motivation able to keep her from thinking of how close he was to her, to connecting with her in the way that she had only wanted with the monster he no longer was.

She didn’t want him like this, didn’t want to know and feel how badly he wanted her, and didn’t want to feel her own body reacting to having a male’s desire pushed against where it was designed to enter (her core ached with need as he bucked his hips against her shallowly, desperate for him to fill her); she clawed at the floor frantically, fighting against her restraints and trying to get away as near hysterical pants for breath plied at her chest.

“No… no, _please_ …” she cried out plaintively when her agitated scrabbling got her nowhere, anxious tears escaping her clenched eyes.

“I can’t have sex with you… I’m not ready, I don’t want to, I can’t have kids yet, please… don’t make me, I don’t want it… please _stop_ …” she begged haplessly, all of her thoughts and fears pouring from her in her dread, and Sans, stunned, froze, his hips stilling and his sockets locking onto the averted profile of her face in consternation.

“kids? what the fuck are you talking about?” he asked, clearly bewildered, and Frisk, still panting and frantic, glanced back at him, wide eyes flicking over his bemused expression.

“You know, kids! Babies! Children! The short things that run around wearing striped shirts! You have sex, biology happens, then kids!” she practically shouted in her panic, shaking tremulously and doing her best to not think of the subject as she spoke of it (she didn’t want to have his children… _please_ …), and Sans stared back at her for a long moment, flabbergasted, before confused peals of laughter escaped him, his shoulders shaking and, for the first time that she had personally seen, a smile of true amusement lifting his sharp toothed grin, untinged by malice or anger or lust.

It made him look… happy, handsome despite his razor sharp fangs and the cracks in his skull (Frisk wondered, suddenly, what had happened to place them there, and why they had never healed), and unnervingly like the skeleton she had once known.

She felt a rush of déjà vu, hearing the familiar tones of his joyful laughter; they had come so easily to him, in his other life, jokes and playful goading and good humor dripping from his personality constantly.

This Sans smiled nearly constantly as well, and laughed often and heartily, but he never looked as happy as he did now, actual tears of hilarity building at the corners of his scrunched sockets; now, seeing and hearing him with no passions but comedy in his voice… she got the impression that he hadn’t laughed like this in a _very_ long time.

Pity clutched at Frisk’s heart, strange given all he had done to her; the last thing she should feel for him was compassion, especially since this single occurrence would likely not change anything he planned to do to her.

But hearing him laugh like this made her realize that, just maybe, there really was something left of her almost lover in him, something that could be reasoned with beyond all his bluster and his cruelty and his violent passions.

If she looked deep enough into him, if she could get him to _see_ and remember… maybe she could find _her_ Sans, her beloved, hidden behind years of pain and loneliness and torment; something must have happened to him to make him like this, a darkness hanging over him that hadn’t touched her Sans, and if she could, she would try to help him.

She remembered, vividly, all the monsters she had helped on her first run through of the Underground, years ago… she remembered Asriel, trapped for centuries without a soul and in never ending misery; she had helped him see the wrong that he had done, in the name of a cynical shadow that had no power over him (she flinched away from the remembrance that he had perished so violently in this timeline, his dust either scattered far and wide or buried, forgotten, beneath the shifting snow in the diseased, dead forest).

She remembered Alphys, desperate for a friend and acceptance but terrified of further failure, in the face of all of her past shortcomings; Frisk had helped her face her fears, and had been her friend no matter the circumstances.

She remembered Mettaton, too lost to his fascination with humans to see all those he was hurting in his overreaching dreams of success and stardom; she had shown him that he already had the love he searched for, and how to appreciate those around him.

She remembered Sans, her loyal, funny, loving Sans, buried to his neck in nihilism and PTSD from all the resets and the pain and the hopelessness of the unending years that only he could remember.

It had taken _years_ of suffering, counseling, love, and a short, terrifying bout of alcoholism to bring him from his particular gloom, at times the gravity of his anguish too much to bear even for her, but she had stood through it all with him, just as he had been beside her on her dangerous journey through the Underground.

This Sans, she couldn’t speak for; she didn’t know the depths of what he had gone through, why he was so angry and violent, and why he wanted to hurt her so badly.

She couldn’t excuse him, just because she felt sorry for his past and his emotional state.

What she _could_ do, however, was try to help him see the light, to try to stop him before he did anything even more terrible than he already had; if she could reach him, find a friend in him that she strived to hope was somewhere within… perhaps she could free him from his vice too.

Determination touched Frisk’s soul again, bolstering her and strengthening her, and a grim resolve locked down on her panic, smothering it almost completely (she still worried, dimly, about the likelihood of him hurting her more or impregnating her, but the salvation of his soul from darkness was more important at the moment).

If she could reach him, she would, and if she couldn’t, if he still… raped her… she would find it in herself to forgive him and free him still.

She had suffered worse at the hands of those she now loved more than anything (she closed her eyes at the remembered visions of her own repeated deaths from her friends’ misguided efforts to subdue her, shaking them away dutifully).

Outside of her virtuous machinations, Sans’s laughter was fading into hiccuppy chuckles, one hand rising to wipe his amused tears away, and so Frisk, sternly set on her course, turned her attention to him once again, wishing she could look him in the face for her upcoming attempts to appeal to him (unfortunately, she was still bound to the floor and being held firmly against his body, so she could only look over her shoulder halfway, which would just have to do).

Perhaps she could get a conversation going long enough to divert his attention away from his current mindset and give her some time to put together a convincing argument; hope flared in her chest, buoying her heart, and, with her newfound conviction speeding her blood in her veins, she found her voice.

“What’s so funny?” she queried as confidently as she could (she still sounded a little shaky and scared, but pulled off a mild interest as well, so that was good), and Sans, shoulders still quaking slightly in his fading mirth, smiled lazily, looking oddly relaxed.

“oh, nothin’ much… just the fact that the monster you were fuckin’ never told ya any of this,” he chortled, raising a bony brow questioningly, and Frisk, surprised by the direction he had taken, blinked numbly, straining her mind to try to remember if she had, in fact, ever been told (by Sans or otherwise) about how monsters bred.

She recalled, with vivid, humiliating clarity, when Toriel had sat her down to talk about how humans had sex and reproduced; she had done her best to explain it, but had clearly not been familiar with all of the details, and had supplemented the very short, embarrassing talk with a trip to the doctor to cement her education.

In addition, Sans had mentioned, once or twice, something about monster mating, though none of it had stuck with her, as it had been very technical and she was much more interested in making out with him; he had also been very excited about the news of the human-monster birth that had been broadcasted on the news a month or so before all of this had happened, showing her some very complicated charts and graphs he had made on the subject, obviously enthusiastic to have been proven correct about… something.

Could it really be so different from how humans reproduced?

Frisk, taken aback, was actually a little bit ashamed of how little she knew about monster biology (“technically, it’s called magicaephisiology, babe,” Sans had corrected her, once, when asking about how his bones were held together); she should have paid more attention or asked more questions…

She was confident Sans would have included the chance of him getting her pregnant in the talk he had meant to have with her before they had sex, but that hadn’t ever happened…

Feeling a little shamefaced, Frisk looked away from the now smug looking skeleton behind her (it hadn’t taken him long to revert to his familiar expressions, had it?), pouting at the crack in the floorboard in front of her.

“He uh… may have mentioned something before. I don’t… remember,” she muttered, acknowledging the uselessness in trying to convince him that she hadn’t slept with the other Sans (he had nearly choked her to death last time she tried), and the monster behind her snickered with relish, clearly and conceitedly entertained.

“too eager to get your snatch stuffed, hmm? figures…” he mocked, bucking his hips against her again for emphasis (Frisk choked on her breath, having almost forgotten about his erection pressed between her legs in her distraction), then shrugged, lowering his eyes to her left shoulder again.

“you’ll be happy t’know i can’t get ya pregnant like this. only bond pairs, people tied together with a soul bond, can breed, and only when a fuckton of magic is transferred between them. do humans pop out kids every time they bump uglies? no wonder there were so fuckin’ many of you in the war,” he explained lazily, derisiveness tinting his humor, and Frisk, stunned, stared at him, truly interested.

“Then why do monsters have sex at all?” she asked before she could stop herself, a mortified flush building on her cheeks once she realized what she had said, and Sans, still in a very good mood, smirked knowingly, hungry allure in his lowered eyelids.

“to create life outta nothin’, you gotta transfer a lot of magic, like i said. i’m sure the humans have heard of being ‘connected body and soul’; that came from us. every contact point is needed for the process, and the usual way t’do that is to bang while the transfer happens, usually for hours. it’s hard as balls, from what i’ve heard, and you gotta save up magic for years, so, obviously, any kids we have are valuable to us,” he expounded nonchalantly, tilting his head to the side, then leaned forward, chuckling darkly.

“plus… fuckin’ feels _damn_ good. most monsters don’t mind bein’ a little loose with sex, unless they’re already bonded, so those of us that ain’t hitched get around. a lot of us ain’t lucky enough to find our soul mate in our first hundred or so years, after all, and though we may look different than you humans… we get lonely too. i’m sure your little squeeze screwed ya enough for you t'get the picture,” he ruminated, something hard firming his lowered brow for a moment, but resumed his lascivious sneering almost immediately, hands squeezing at her hips emphatically.

“long story short? sex is good whether we’re breedin’ or not. takes the edge off in a way nothin’ else can, ya know? i gotta tell ya, sugartits… there’s nothin’ quite like a tight pussy around my cock to take my mind off things,” he crooned, licking over his teeth slowly, and leaned even further over her, his rib cage pressing into her back and his claws digging into her waist to keep his balance.

“and i’ve got a lot on my mind, if ya know what i mean.”

Frisk, for her part, was a little overwhelmed by the information (it actually sounded very romantic, only being able to have children when you wanted them, and only with the person you were meant to be with), mind drifting automatically to thoughts of whether or not her Sans had thought about how his magic would work when it came to her; was that why he had been doing all that research and made all those charts?

He _had_ been very excited to hear about the half-human, half-monster child…

As occupied as she was, a flush of shy tenderness climbing her cheeks (had Sans been planning to have a family with her?), she neglected to notice her tormentor looming over her, and was thus shocked almost out of her skin when he breathed, suddenly and hotly, on the back of her neck, her tangles of hair shifting against his exhalation; the scent of cigarettes clung to it, though she had never seen him smoking.

He was heavy, with his weight laying against her back, but she had little attention to spare for his bulk or the repeated recognition of just how big he was, focused instead on the rasp in his breathing (like he was suppressing a growl) and the glow of his magic she could see from the corner of her eye.

Her breath seized in her chest when he grinned sharply and tilted his head, his cheekbone brushing against her ear; his voice, guttural but quiet, whispered against the side of her face seductively, and with each syllable he uttered, a shiver wracked her pinioned body, his meaning and closeness both ebbing away the softness of her former thoughts.

“so, now that you don’t gotta worry about me knockin’ ya up… we can have all the fun we want, yeah?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T-T I'm sorry for the cliffhanger again, but I am working in earnest on the smut. I wanna have it done in at most a week. Thank you for reading anyways, even though I'm a liar and a letdown. Hopefully I'll see you all again soon.


	4. To Soothe the Savage Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He averted his sockets from his fingers back to meet her tremulous and unwilling gaze, deliberately raising a bony brow and separating his glistening fingertips, letting her sticky arousal stretch wetly between them.
> 
> “well fuckin’ well…” he crooned knowingly, sliding the hand he had leaned on her lower back down to squeeze lewdly at her ass (she jumped nervously, not expecting the contact), his crooked smile only growing in the shifting shadows of the room.
> 
> “for someone that ‘doesn’t want me’, you sure are fuckin’ wet. that hot for my cock, hussy? heh… like i even need to ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wowie zowie, lookit that <3 an update before its been a whole month. It must be Christmas in May XD well, even more luck be to you, my dear reader... because this is only the first half of my promised and now completed chapter! I chose to separate it into two parts because, as I have stressed before, 22,000 words is just too much to read in one sitting, even for me. I did my editing in spurts XD 
> 
> So, as such, one week from today I will release the second half of this chapter in its entirety. I wanna give everybody the chance to get caught up and, you know, build the proper tension >:D
> 
> Now that that's out of the way... I wanted to sincerely thank each and every one of you for your kind words and your interest in this story. I cannot express how elated and totally undeserving I am XD 
> 
> For this half of the chapter, we haven't gotten to the nitty gritty quite yet, but there is some pretty hardcore stuff ahead, so be warned of that. 
> 
> Now, this whole story is going to be like this, so if you are below the age of 18, or are uncomfortable with subject material like non-consensual sex, BDSM, pain, abuse, exploitation, and psychological mind games, this story is not for you and you should find something more pleasant to read <3
> 
> Now, to those of you that know what is ahead and decide to stay... be prepared >:)
> 
> Alright, so, that being said, I had some really awesome people draw some really awesome art for this story <3 I shall share the links with you so that you can join in the awesome.
> 
> http://kurohaai.tumblr.com/image/142583297315  
> http://kurohaai.tumblr.com/image/143295915815  
> http://kurohaai.tumblr.com/image/143849824520  
> http://kurohaai.tumblr.com/image/144337670620  
> http://kenyaketchup.tumblr.com/image/144083072627
> 
> Oh, and also my Tumblr, where I post updates on the story's progress, summaries for future fanfics, the occasional teaser for a coming chapter, and a bunch of other Undertale/Undertail stuff.
> 
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thebananafrappe
> 
> T-T I don't know how to make them clickable... I'm sorry.
> 
> P.S. If you wanna know where my head was while writing this chapter, listen to Breath, by Breaking Benjamin, or Don't Trust Me, by 3OH!3

* * *

His voice hissed against her skin excitedly, a hot, slimy tendril of his saliva dripping from his jaw to splatter on her bare shoulder (the split down the front of her dress negated almost completely the effectiveness of her sleeves, and had to be held shut to keep it from falling off, which was hard to do while pinned to the floor), and with the wet contact on her skin, Frisk shook herself from her distraction, licking her lips nervously.

She ignored the way his flaming iris darted to the movement, concentrating the best she could on her former resolution.

He was getting too excited; she needed to reach him, post haste, before anything else happened.

“S-so… uh, look,” she stuttered nervously as Sans pushed himself back up to kneel behind her, his hands shifting on her hips distractingly as he scooted his body away from hers (what was he doing?).

“You… we don’t need to do this. We can keep talking, you know, about the timeline. There are things I haven’t told you about, like… like Alphys’s lab! The one belowground! And… and the locked door outside town!” she offered hopefully, remembering his probing questions about her previous ability to reset, but the smug skeleton barely acknowledged her dialogue, his fingers tracing tingling, slow lines along the exposed skin of her back, running along the hem of her leggings with seeming contemplativeness.

She could almost feel the heat of his gaze on her posterior, nearly burning her with its intensity.

“nah. i know about her dirty little secret already; she didn’t get far enough in her experiments to do anything big enough to alter space-time. and the door… if i wanted to know what was behind it, i could just teleport through it,” he dismissed blithely, sliding an errant fingertip beneath the elastic band he was tracing, and Frisk, focused entirely on the point of contact, laughed timidly, eyes flicking over what she could see of him anxiously (he looked focused too, his grin ardent and his blazing eye flickering hotly).

“O-okay, but… what about the machine? The one in your lab? Sa… the other you… said that it was supposed to be a temporal… something; maybe it could have been used to do something!” she spluttered, squirming a little under his exploring hands (the hand not currently playing with her hemline had slid up the bare skin of her back under her dress, an extended thumb ticking over the protrusions of her spine), and at this, Sans glanced up at her volatilely, temper darkening his gaze.

“yeah, and i’m sure he also told you it’s never fuckin’ worked, and never will. now shut your damn mouth before i find somethin’ better for you to do with it,” he growled, annoyance coloring his tone as he clenched his fingers reflexively, his claws scraping a little too hard over her rib cage, and Frisk, swallowing back her instinctive desire to snap at him (play it cool… losing your temper too wouldn’t help right now…), again wetted her suddenly extremely dry mouth.

“Yes… but. You know I don’t want this. We can talk about it; I’m sorry I made you angry, and insulted you, but I know you’ll regret it if you… if you do this to me,” she muttered plaintively, voice soft and almost too quiet to be heard over the cacophony of the storm outside, but Sans had always had very good hearing, and stopped upon hearing her plea, again raising his eyes to meet hers.

He was silent, for a moment, his face blank as his magical eye flickered over hers; his deep breaths stirred the still air into dusty motion.

Optimism bloomed, then, in her chest when he withdrew the hand he had extended up her dress, sitting back on his haunches as though to move away; she had done it, she thought joyously… she had reached him.

Maybe this really would all work out like she hoped.

That hope was short lived and fleeting, however; the next moment, he let out a gruff chuckle, his expression moving from vacancy to scorn as he curled the fingers of his exploring hand into the waistband of her leggings, his other smoothing down to press, restrainingly, into the skin of her lower back.

“don’t think i can’t tell what you’re doin’, sweetheart,” he admonished laughingly, absentmindedly rubbing the material of her leggings between his thumb and forefinger with a wide grin on his haughty face. “tryin’ to distract me, to appeal to my better side… tough luck there, toots.”

“i don’t _have_ a better side.”

Sans’s smirk grew sharper at this comment, and without warning he ripped the hand he had clenched in the fabric of her leggings downwards, sliding them over the curve of her ass and down to her knees in one smooth movement, leaving her only barrier between her and him the thin, lacy, hardly adequate cover of her panties.

Frisk let out a sharp cry of indignity, shame instantly coloring her face as she tried to scoot away from him, but the hand he had set on her lower back held her in place, his other rising from her crumpled leggings to trail up the inside of her thigh.

He snickered cruelly at the gasp of mortified stimulation this elicited from her, gaze roving over her face with satisfaction.

“you can’t play _me_ , girlie. we’re gonna fuck tonight, whether you like it or not; not because you pissed me off for the thousandth time, or because you keep comparin’ me to your fuckwit of a boyfriend. i’m fuckin’ ya because i can, because you’re _mine_ , and it’s about fuckin’ time that you learned that,” he assured her, deadly serious, then flicked his eyes down to her uncovered panties, blatant hunger echoing from his expression.

“the only regret i’ll have by the end of the night is only havin’ time to fuck you _once_ ,” he admitted, his thumb drawing tingling circles on the flesh of her thigh and his baritone, husky voice making her shiver in trepidation beneath the pressure of his hands, despair puncturing her before buoyant hopefulness.

He was refusing to listen… she had thought this may happen, but she had hoped… she had hoped so much…

Frisk, holding her tears and her disappointment and her growing fear at bay as best she could (panic was clawing up her throat again, eating away at her resolve to remain calm and abide), did her damnedest to squeeze her legs together, desperate to thwart, or at least distract, him and all too aware of the cool wetness trailing down her bare thighs from her soaked panties.

It seemed impossible to her flustered and quailing mind that she had gotten this turned on, this ready for _him_ ; she didn’t want him to touch her, to be this exposed in front of him (not even her Sans had seen her panties before, had refused to, in fact, growling into her ear that he’d rather wait ‘til he could take them off with his teeth), _hated_ that her whole body felt like it was on fire.

But the fact of the matter remained that she _was_ , that no matter how much she hated him and his motives and how he made her feel, he had still caused this reaction in her (though it could be reasoned that she was only responding because of her relationship with his past self; that’s what she told herself at least), and there was very little, besides her current efforts to snap her legs shut, that she could do about it.

Unfortunately, her posture and Sans’s kneeling presence between her spread thighs debilitated one of her last recourses of resistance, her anxious shifting only causing him to press down harder on her lower back and clasp his large hand around her inner thigh to keep her legs apart ( _no_ … oh no, he was too close… he _must_ be able to feel her wetness now…).

“you better fuckin’ _not_ , woman; i’m gettin’ real fuckin’ _fed up_ …” he started to growl at her, his sharp nails biting into her bare skin warningly and sending waves of panic scurrying along her already goose bumped flesh (please don’t notice, please don’t notice), but, to her eternal dread, paused in the middle of his tirade, blinking his sockets in surprise when he felt his hand slide sideways a little where he was grasping at her leg, lubricated by her dripping arousal.

Tilting his head and dipping his chin, Sans lowered his gaze to her dimly lit thighs, releasing her leg to run his fore and middle finger up the inside; once he had, he raised his hand up into the sparse light of the wavering lantern and inspected his fingers closely, rubbing his thumb over them contemplatively.

Frisk stared at what she could see of his face, biting at her lip nervously and hoping he would make the wrong assumption (was there a chance at all that he didn’t know what it was?), but was destined to be disappointed when, after a moment of silent consideration, Sans’s interested neutrality morphed into cocky awareness, a slow, cruel smirk curling the corners of his mouth into triumph.

He averted his sockets from his fingers back to meet her tremulous and unwilling gaze, deliberately raising a bony brow and separating his glistening fingertips, letting her sticky arousal stretch wetly between them.

“ _well_ fuckin’ _well_ …” he crooned knowingly, sliding the hand he had leaned on her lower back down to squeeze lewdly at her ass (she jumped nervously, not expecting the contact), his crooked smile only growing in the shifting shadows of the room.

“for someone that ‘doesn’t want me’, you sure are fuckin’ wet. that hot for my cock, hussy? heh… like i even need to ask,” he continued to leer, his confidence swelling his tone with pride and ego, and Frisk, grasping at straws, spluttered with indignity, shaking her head as best she could with it craned to the side (there was no time to worry about her comfort or the crick in her spine, she had to keep an eye on him).

“No! I… it’s just… sweat,” she excused weakly, not even daring to hope that he would believe her (who was she kidding? He was obviously _well_ aware of what was coating his fingers) but still trying as she watched, in dread, the excitement in his gaze only grow (he was practically radiating lust and gloating, lascivious appetite, his magical eye sparking hotly as it darted from her parted, quivering lips to her obviously drenched panties).

Sans, immediately tossing away her explanation, barked out a grating laugh, grinning sloppily as his tongue swept past the confines of his fangs, lolling wantonly; his breath hissed from him in a steaming cloud of pure rapture.

“sweat, huh… didn’t know humans sweated in the cold,” he commented drily, sarcasm layering his desirous, gravely, chest rattlingly deep voice, then darted the hand that had been idly massaging her ass out to snatch up a handful of her hair, yanking back on it to drag her head backwards painfully.

Frisk cried out as her neck was wrenched even farther to the side, her spine twinging electrically; Sans, clearly mistaking the sound as one of pleasure, growled beneath his breath, tightening his grip on her hair.

“why don’t we test that theory, hmm?” he questioned heatedly, sockets narrowing in his avidity, and brought his arousal coated fingers to her lips (which she immediately clamped shut, tears of pain beading in the corners of her eyes), leaning his bulk over her prostrated body again to reach her.

Sans smeared her own wetness over her mouth as he pressed his fingertips against it, searching for purchase past her lips that she didn’t want to give; Frisk could smell herself on his fingers, slightly sweet but pungent, and shame again crawled up her cheeks, her shoulders trembling at the strain of being held off the ground in this position and the heaviness of the moment.

He made humiliating her seem almost effortless, like he wasn’t even trying; she wasn’t exactly a pushover, having dealt personally with hardheaded, sexist, and racist politicians from the age of eleven in the fight for the monster race’s rights (a fight well fought, and long ago won), but this Sans… he made her feel powerless with ease.

The feeling was only exemplified when Sans finally succeeded in pushing his fingers into her mouth, the taste of her own arousal permeating her senses as he rubbed his finger bones against her tongue indolently.

He wasn’t making her decision to save him no matter what he did to her any easier.

The mordant, satisfied looking skeleton kneeling behind Frisk smirked lazily once his victory was achieved, tugging firmly at the hank of her hair he held to get her attention.

“don’t taste like sweat, does it sugar? bet it tastes more like your soppin’ wet pussy…” he muttered quietly, coarse voice reverberating against her back as he clearly relished the feeling of her mouth around his still stroking fingers; she heard him breathe deeply in though his nasal cavity, the rasp of a deep growl returning to rumble in his chest.

“ _fuck_ … i can smell how wet you are, how bad you want me… my thirsty little whore is all ready for me before we’ve even gotten _started_. you musta _really_ liked the games we’ve been playin’ tonight, huh?” he insinuated lustfully, scissoring Frisk’s twisting tongue between his fingers as he spoke (she had been trying to pull it away from him, but had thus far been unsuccessful) and clearly uninterested in her replies, as he gave no indication that he intended to remove his phalanges from her mouth.

He went on, his jaws now in a constant slaver; luminescent red saliva wended grotesquely from his pointed teeth, his snaking tongue occasionally sweeping across his mandible to catch the trails it left behind.

“what was it that made ya cream your panties so hard that you’re drippin’ down your thighs, hmm? was it the humiliation? do ya like dirty talk, when i call you a slut and tell you how hard i’m gonna fuck you? you get turned on by bondage, skank? you into bein’ dominated?” he probed salaciously, overbearing and carnal and practically panting in his enthusiasm; she could feel, again pressed against her backside, his cock twitch through his shorts in excitement, the hard length of him shifting up and down her slit as he adjusted his posture.

Frisk, her body starting to tremble in earnest from the overstimulation and emotional turmoil and her now blatant distress, immediately shook her head (firmly denying to both him and herself that any of this was making her hot), pushing adamantly at his fingers with her tongue to try to force them from her mouth, and Sans, breathing quickened in his anticipation, laughed caustically at this, shifting his thumb quickly and catching her tongue between it and his forefinger.

He pulled it from her mouth, exposing the pink muscle to his view; his flaming iris glittered with savage pleasure as he ran the tip of one of his claws over it slowly, tracing a line down its center.

“no, huh… then… it must have been the _pain_ ,” he observed savagely, his tone sinking into gruff, lascivious censure; he released her tongue with a grating chuckle, running his thumb over the wide, deep cut in her lip as he did (Frisk flinched, the wound reopening under the pressure), then yanked on her hair again, _hard_ , moving his now free hand to the outside of her thigh and raking his nails all the way up it, drawing fine lines of blood in his wake.

Frisk, unprepared for the pain, let out a shaky yelp, squirming under his ministrations; she may have been unsure of how his other actions made her feel, but knew she didn’t like him hurting her.

There would be very little she could say to convince him of that, though, especially in his current state.

She shuddered at the thought of what he could do to her, remembering, with abject and real terror, the feeling of her ribs cracking in her chest, of her throat constricting beneath the bite of iron studded leather; she could still feel the sting of his hand on her face, the dig of his clawed fingers in her flesh and the trickle of her blood along her skin, and felt almost sick, trying not to imagine what he would do to her if he thought she _liked_ being hurt.

Her stomach lurched, queasy with nerves and fear; she had to stop this.

Her reaction to his harsh handling seemed to have been what he was looking for because, with a bright flash of his magic, Sans let out a shuddering, pleased sounding growl, his grin sharp and wicked in his skull.

“who woulda thought that such a good, pretty little girl was a masochist?” he rasped darkly, his fingers twisting in her hair and his other hand, climbing the roundness of her hip, smoothing softly over her ass before abruptly lifting away and smacking down again, jerking a cry of pain from her despite trying to hold it back.

His smile only grew, predatory and vicious.

“is that why you like to piss me off, bitch? do you like it when i hurt ya? does it get your tight little cunt wet when i get my hands around your throat? i bet you couldn’t think of anything but gettin’ my cock in ya when i was holding you to the floor earlier… what a fuckin’ _freak_ ,” he hissed greedily, thrusting against her almost unconsciously, and Frisk, shivering in distress (he was throbbing against her barely covered center, obviously turned on by his dialogue), shook her head again frantically, a sob leaking past her cracked lips.

She didn’t know what to do.

A part of her mind, the reasonable, long suffering part, told her that she would be fine, that she would make it out and, once he was done with her, once he had what he wanted, she would be able to escape; it was a long shot that required a lot of factors to line up, but it was possible.

The part of her that feared the worst of every situation also muttered to her, though, fretting over how much he could hurt her, screaming about why she didn’t deserve this, and bemoaning whether her Sans would still want her after this one had taken her.

She paid as little attention to that thought as she could.

Another part of her wanted to reach out and kick him in his smug face, to see how much _he_ liked getting hit, but she ignored that part too, knowing full well just how much stronger he was than her and what he was capable of when angry.

With any way her mind turned, however, she was sure of one thing; she couldn’t just sit here and let him think she liked pain.

When he smacked her ass, it sent tingles of electric arousal shooting between her legs, so that wasn’t the most unpleasant feeling despite still not wanting him to do it; her Sans had done that too (not nearly as hard, but with equal fervor, her surprised yelps giving rise to some truly diabolical looking grins), so she wasn’t very surprised by her reaction to that.

The other things though… him hitting her, cutting her, pulling her hair… _that_ she didn’t find pleasant at all (she thought, at least; she _really_ didn’t want to think too hard about that).

Maybe she was wrong, about him responding to reason... there was a chance he would show mercy.

Maybe he would listen.

“No… please… I don’t like pain, it just hurts…” she whimpered, the cuts in her thigh stinging unpleasantly from their exposure to the cold air (she almost crossed her fingers reflexively, stopping only when she realized that that _might_ look manipulative), but Sans, excited almost beyond reason, only laughed, the sound grating and harsh in his barefaced lust.

“yeah, guess he wouldn’t have had the stomach to do this kind of shit to ya, huh… fuckin’ pansy,” he mused huskily, sneering superiorly as he looked almost lovingly on the red marks he had left behind on her ass, running a thumb over the imprint of his hand, then glanced up at her profile, meeting her tremulous gaze with dark promise.

“don’t worry, dollface; i’ll show ya how good it can be. you’ll be into it before ya know it… so much that you’ll soak your pretty little panties every time i look at ya. if i letcha wear ‘em at all, that is,” he alluded, edging the tip of his index finger beneath the waistband of her underwear, then lifted his hand and let the elastic laced fabric snap back against her skin with a conceited smirk quirking his bony lip line, seeming to relish the whine she let out at the sting.

Reeling from his absolute dismissal of her denial, Frisk, her panic surfacing despite her attempts to contain it, tried to pull away from him and his body again (his hips were gyrating, seemingly unconsciously, against her backside, and were making it very difficult to concentrate), but, unfortunately, had reached the limit at which she could scoot forward and came to a jarring, painful halt when the fist clenched in her hair pulled taut, bouncing her backwards instead.

Far from separating her body from his, she ended up bucking into him, his sturdy bones and the hard length of his concealed dick pressing hotly against her seeping core; she bit desperately into her bottom lip for the hundredth time that night to hold back the groan the movement elicited, her vision blurring minutely in the wash of pleasure that enveloped her.

Sans had no such reservations, however; his gratification burst from his throat in a ragged gasp of shameless satisfaction, his fingers clenching in her hair and on her hip reflexively and his ivory eyelids lowering blissfully as his body shuddered in appetence.

“ _fuck_ …” he grunted once he had regained the breath that had evacuated him without notice, his gaze flaring passionately in his eye socket; his wolfish grin returned full force, glinting avidly in the muted light.

“guess we know why you’re so wet… you’re just _that_ _much_ of a cock hungry whore. here you are, claimin’ not to want me, but the second you get the chance you’re rubbin’ yourself on my dick. can’t help yourself, can ya? you’re so desperate to get your cunt stuffed that you’ll spread your legs for any monster that’ll have ya,” he rasped allusively, the words panting from him as his rib cage rose and fell in his excitement; he untangled his fingers from her hair to trace a sharp nail along her jawline, leaving a dark red trail in its wake.

His other hand, which had been thumbing at the lacy edging of her panties, followed the lining of the material he had been fingering down over the curve of her ass, drawing a shiver of forced stimulation from her.

Frisk, mind nearly overwhelmed by the situation (this wasn’t the way she had envisioned the evening going, at _all_ ), swallowed thickly but remained as still as she had fallen the moment that she had realized what she had done rather than succeed in removing herself from this position, blankly aware of the fact that, behind her, Sans was scooting himself backwards, separating their bodies on his own.

The searing shame that crawled up Frisk’s cheeks at his filthy allusion made her resolve quaver even further, the reactions of her traitorous body almost breaking her (she should have been disgusted by feeling the evidence of his desire pushing against her, but that aversion seemed to have long passed, if the frantic pulsing of her inner walls told her anything).

She just wanted it all to end.

It was hard to believe that only a month ago she had been happy, safe, and looking anxiously forward to having sex with the monster she had loved for years, holding his hand and kissing him under the night sky and stealing his clothes despite his half-hearted protests (she liked to sleep in his shirts, surrounded by the scent of tomatoes and wet earth and magic and the cologne she had gotten him for Christmas).

She felt dirtied now, the imprint of this Sans’s hands tattooed into her skin… she wasn’t sure she would ever be able to wash the shame and the degradation and the misplaced lust she was feeling away, no matter how much time passed.

She wished, desperately, for this to be over quickly, for him to stop teasing her and just use her and be done; she was convinced that the longer he lingered, the worse it would be once he finally moved to take her, and hated how long he was taking, how much enjoyment he seemed to be getting from harassing her.

She especially hated how much her body was begging her to give in, how much her mind wanted her to recognize that this was just Sans, his hands and his tongue and his hard, bony body on hers, just how she had always wanted him.

She could be strong though, she reminded herself; she knew who her Sans was, how he would treat her and how careful he had always been with her, and wouldn’t forget just because they looked and sounded and felt the same.

Besides, her Sans would still love her and be with her after this; this Sans couldn’t take anything more than her first time.

She had wanted it to be with her Sans, true, but if this was the worst thing the forceful, cruel monster could do to her, she would survive.

At that thought, a warning niggled at the back of her mind uncomfortably, as though she was forgetting something important; it felt as though she had just been thinking of it, too, and had been deathly afraid of what it could mean for her and her future.

What was it…?

She was drawn, suddenly and jarringly, from her ruminations when the finger bone that had been trailing along her jawline suddenly curled around the leather of her collar, jerking at her throat and drawing her attention back the skeleton kneeling behind her inexplicably; he was still smirking animatedly, his magic bright and his expression carnal, but there was warning in the lift of his grin and the narrowness of his gaze, now familiar possessiveness exuding from him in waves of shadowy condemnation.

The drifting, doubting query that had bothered her for a moment was instantly forgotten, in the face of her persecutor’s irritation, and wouldn’t plague her again until it was far too late.

“i don’t need to tell ya that the only cock you’ll be grindin’ on from now on is mine, do i? i know you’ll take it however you can, thirsty whore thatcha are, but you’re _my_ whore now… and if i ever see you even _look_ at another monster like you want them, i’ll rip their head off and fuck you in their fuckin’ dust. understand?” he threatened savagely, the horror of the image sending tremors of fear through Frisk’s whole body (he was definitely capable of murder, she knew that; he had torn Flowey to shreds without batting an eye), her mind jumping to and away from imaginings of this baleful creature hurting her Sans quickly.

No… he wouldn’t ever see him.

Different timelines… this Sans couldn’t hurt him.

She didn’t have to worry…

She didn’t…

Her lack of an audible or visual acknowledgement of his vicious declaration, too distracted by her worry about what could happen to her almost lover to recognize that she hadn’t responded, immediately set Sans off, his fingers tightening around her collar and his wandering hand sliding, harsh and abrupt, between her legs, the hard tips of his fingers pressing roughly against her sopping core.

The gasp of violation this jerked from Frisk only partially satisfied the fuming monster, his index and middle finger curling to sink as far into her folds as her panties would allow.

“did you fuckin’ hear me? this pussy is mine, bitch. not even _you’re_ allowed to touch it unless i tell ya to. _do you fuckin’ understand_?” he snarled, bristling in his anger, and Frisk, trembling frantically and holding back frightened tears as she felt his fingertips rub against her entrance, nodded jerkily, refusing to meet his gaze as she did.

She didn’t mean it, not in the least, but he didn’t need to know that.

Sans snorted in response, subdued anger still in his lowered brows, but seemed to accept her mute recognition of his demand and, after another moment spent glaring at her venomously, muttering threatening vitriol under his breath, turned his attention to the hand he had shoved between her legs, rubbing his crooked fingertips over her covered entrance once more (Frisk choked on her breath, barely catching a decidedly humiliating sound as it left her throat) before dragging them away, raising his hand and looking, with carnal victory, on his once again wetted bones.

“i do hafta give ya some credit though, kitten… you sure know how to make a monster feel wanted. i bet your pathetic boyfriend could barely keep his hands off of ya, if you got your panties even half as wet as you get’em for me…” he crooned, rubbing her arousal between his fingers almost contemplatively, then looked down to meet Frisk’s newly returned stare, holding her gaze as he flicked his scarlet tongue past his teeth to lick at his phalanges with a meaningful smirk.

Frisk immediately looked away again, staring at the bent nail a foot away from her nose with a furiously red blush decorating her cheeks; her averted eyes did nothing to drown out the wet, sloppy sound of his tongue lapping at her arousal, though, and her blush only grew darker, trying her best to ignore the fervent heat pulsing in her abdomen.

This was ridiculous, she shouldn’t be feeling like this…

Behind her, the sounds of Sans sucking at his fingertips faded, and abruptly her collar was released, dropping her torso fully back to the ground; Frisk, surprised by the sudden movement, glanced behind herself again, just in time to watch the grinning monster looming over her lick across his teeth hungrily, one thumb wiping at his lower jaw to catch an escaping trail of drool.

“ _shit_ … you taste as good as you smell, sugartits. i could see myself gettin’ addicted to the taste of your pussy… bet you’d like _that_ , huh? havin’ my face between your legs every day, your snatch full of my tongue…” he alluded crudely, wagging a brow bone and holding his dripping index and middle finger to his mouth to drape his thick scarlet tongue between them, and Frisk, shocked by his vulgarity (she didn’t know how she was still surprised by it, he had said _much_ worse tonight), shuddered unwillingly, the tremendous heat steadily climbing her cheeks making her head fuzzy.

If she wasn’t sure her voice would come out in an undignified squeak, she would attempt to deny his claim; as it was, she wasn’t even convinced she _could_ speak.

She felt dizzy and faint from all of his attentions, overwhelmed and reluctant; she wanted to be cold, to feel nothing, and was trying her damnedest not to respond, but he… he seemed _very_ good at what he was doing, teasing and touching in all the right ways (he must be as experienced, if not more, than her Sans; _he_ had been able to make her squirm by just whispering in her ear, knowing just what he was doing to her and grinning while he did it), and despite how badly she wanted to just lay there and take what he was giving, to get it over with…

Damn him, he was playing her like an instrument.

Seemingly out of nowhere, his large hands descended onto her lace covered, still red (and starting to bruise) ass, and Frisk flinched at the hard contact of his hands to her flesh again, the rough press of his bones against her center lingering ethereally and making her hyper aware of his every movement, but Sans paid her twitching no mind, consumed, with a look of ardent marvel on his face, by the texture of the material he was grasping.

His smirk twisting ironically, the palpably aroused skeleton ran his still saliva coated forefinger beneath the edge of the tight, prettily woven panties beneath his palm, his sockets hooded and heavy as he gazed fervidly at the dark fabric stretched across the expanse of her ass.

She would admit to admiring them herself, in secret, after he had given them to her; she had never had underwear that nice and, arguably, sexy, always more of a cotton panty kind of girl, though she had looked, with bright red cheeks, at some pretty sets of blue lingerie in the window of a risqué store, wondering what her Sans would think of them.

“i thought these would look hot on ya… looks like i was right,” he rumbled quietly after inspecting his gift for a moment, his adventuring finger bone travelling up and down the underside of the fabric lingeringly; Frisk was frozen on the spot, the path his finger was travelling _far_ too close to her core.

“black lace is my favorite, see, and just imaginin’ them against your skin… heh. let’s just say i’ve thought about it on my own a few times. don’t hold a candle to the real deal, though… sexy as _all_ hell,” he divulged throatily, deliberately dragging his finger lower and lower as he spoke, and Frisk flushed even darker, doing her damnedest to not think of what he was doing to himself while thinking about her.

She would have loved to say she found it disgusting, but in line with her out of touch identity crises, she felt her abdomen clench, heat traveling along her skin in a tingling wave when she imagined him alone, her lingerie clad body on his mind and his hand moving down the front of his pants...

She shuddered again, and decided that it was distaste and not desire that made it happen.

Sans, for his part, didn’t seem to particularly care about what she thought of it; he was clearly enjoying the contrast of her skin to the lace of the garment he was toying with, the tips of his finger bones wending back and forth between the two and the one inserted beneath the fabric slowly but surely sliding lower.

He spent another moment in silence, just touching her softly and scrutinizing the panties that he had bought her with a satisfied and possessive expression, then huffed out a muted, rueful chuckle, the sound reverberating hollowly in his empty chest cavity.

“but as much as I like ‘em on ya, i bet they’d look even better around your ankles… or stuffed in your mouth,” he purred keenly, his lax manner fleeing and stripping his expression of everything but his habitual, hankering desire, and purposefully stroked his finger lower, rubbing the joint of his knuckle over Frisk’s sodden folds; his smirk stretched wider when the girl in his grasp jolted at the contact, her breath growing heavier and her exhausted legs trembling.

Evidently amused and no small amount intrigued, he dragged the back of his finger along her slit again, clenching his other hand on the curve of her ass when she squirmed beneath his touch, biting restrainingly at her lip; it wasn’t pleasurable as much as panic inducing, having him touch her so close to the last place she wanted him (she would have preferred him being all the way on the other side of the Underground, in all honesty), and she was trying her hardest not to gasp every time he did something that made her alarm only crank higher.

He got a sick sort of pleasure from that, it seemed, and the last thing she wanted to do was encourage him further.

Despite Frisk’s lack of audible reactions, Sans seemed to be getting off on her expressions and posture well enough, and let out a breath tinted with the rumble of a domineering growl, pressing his bones against her once more and watching, with distinct pleasure, her back clench fitfully and her bloody lower lip grow white from the pressure of her teeth.

“we’ll leave ‘em on ya for now, though… well, mostly anyways; no sense in _eatin’_ around the bush,” he snickered, vindicated and entertained in his indulgence (she wished he wouldn’t make puns, especially when they went over her head… it reminded her too much of her almost lover in a time when she really didn’t need the prompt), and then hooked the finger he had been rubbing against her the rest of the way across the crotch of her panties, gathering the material and pulling it to the side suddenly and distressingly.

Wide eyed and quaking, Frisk instinctively moved to pull away from him, shrinking and trying to hide her bared flesh from him with a blush so dark covering the whole of her face that she was sure she would never return to her original skin tone.

The hand he had clasped around the curve of her hip held her in place though, the stretch of the lace tight against her skin preventing her from pulling away in the other direction, and Frisk, thwarted again in her attempts to escape, buried her face in the crook of her shoulder, humiliated and nervous and straining her ears as the monster behind her shifted against the rough wooden floor, a silence falling inside the shack that the storm outside disagreed with severely, if the sudden rise in the volume of the wind and the beat of hail against the roof and walls testified to anything.

Was this it?

Was this where he would drop his pants and… and…

Frisk swallowed nervously, wanting to look behind her but also not (maybe he would make it quick… like ripping off a Band-Aid…); it had to be what he was doing, what other reason would he have to do this?

She could feel the weight of his stare on her, intensely aware of the fact that she had _never_ been in this position before (this was going beyond anything she knew of when it came to sex; her Sans had rubbed her through her pants once when she had teased him a little too much at the movies, but being open and bare before him? This was so new and unwanted and she _wasn’t ready_ ) and feeling the cold air brushing almost lovingly against her too warm and too wet center; she firmly denied the excitement burning at the edge of her mind, decisively reminding herself that this wasn’t what she wanted…

That he was doing this without her permission…

That it wasn’t _him_ …

Frisk would have gone on reprimanding herself, determined to remain aware of the differences between the two skeleton monsters (she had to keep doing so to avoid giving in entirely, to keep herself from diving so deep into this charade of acceptance that she believed it herself), had a sudden wash of hot, humid air not brushed over her upper thighs, breaking her from her resistant preoccupation with a startled yelp.

While she had been reminding herself of how much she _didn’t_ like this, Sans had scooted even further back and bent to bring himself level with her half covered sex, and his uneven, panting breaths were puffing against her skin haphazardly, making goosebumps break across her flesh in droves.

Sudden realization overcame her, the only reason why he would have his face that close to her core hitting like a ton of bricks (she only had vague knowledge of the act, dirty terms and hand signs like the one he had used earlier and a porn video that she had accidentally-on-purpose opened her only reference points), and Frisk let out a very audible gasp.

Oh… oh god…

No, no… he _couldn’t_ …

The faces and sounds that the woman in the porn video had made flashed through her mind, matching the guttural rumble of her Sans’s voice in her ear a few months ago (“i can do _lots_ of things with my tongue, babe... anything you want… and _all_ of them will make you scream…”), and quickly snapped her head around, suddenly desperate to stop him.

She couldn’t let him do this, not if it was going to make her respond like that; her sanity could already hardly bear the juxtaposition between him and her Sans, the similar way their bones felt and how alike their voices were and how sexual they could be… she wasn’t sure she would be able to stand it if she reacted from him licking her like this.

The shame alone may kill her, if his taunting didn’t do the trick.

“H-hey… wait…” she spluttered, her strained glances over her shoulder only giving her a view of the furred ruff of his coat and the very top of his skull (the crack that ran along its dome fractured and split near the back, looking like the origin point of the injury), but she got no answer besides the tightening of his grip on the thickness of her posterior and a hoarse chuckle blowing another searing breath against her dripping folds, eliciting a jolt of stimulation from her, before the slick, wet length of his tongue ran up the span of her center, the undulating tip dragging over her clit in its passing.

Frisk’s back arched at the sensation without her permission, her nails digging into the board beneath her hands and her eyes shooting wide; a choked gasp, reverberating with surprised pleasure, broke off her attempted protests, the sound escaping her already open lips freely.

She immediately clamped her mouth shut, ignominy and degradation washing over her in droves (god, she sounded so _needy_ …), but the damage had already been done; a growl of acknowledgement echoed from between her legs, issued from the concealed monster, and he immediately retraced the path his tongue had taken along her arousal soaked sex, the thickness of the ectoplasmic appendage parting her folds to drag slowly over her entrance, dipping inside teasingly before drawing away.

Frisk, eyelids drooping in an unwilling stupor, quaked passionately on weak knees, a ragged moan fighting to free itself from her throat, but she held it back stubbornly, all of her resolve focused on not collapsing as Sans’s tongue repeated its lingering, provocative journey along her twitching core (fickle anatomy).

She refused to give in to the almost overwhelming pleasure, hanging on to the remembrance of why she needed to stay focused even as her oppressor flattened his skillful, almost too warm tongue against her clit and _massaged_ it ( _holy_ … she didn’t even know that was possible).

It was starting to look like she wouldn’t be able to stop him from doing whatever he wanted to her, to keep him from committing a wrong so grievous that it only drove him farther down the path of darkness, but she had to keep trying.

Getting caught up in the impossibly gratifying sensation of his smooth, sinuous tongue against her damp folds was not conducive to that plan…

But _damn_ would it be easy to give in… was this how it always was, or was he just that _good_?

“Please, I… we need to… talk…” she managed to force out between strokes of his tongue against her skin, only able to keep her hips from pushing backwards into his face by sheer willpower, but had no such control over her voice, its tone fluctuating pitchily each time she opened her mouth (she sounded like a cat in heat, and felt like it too, her shame unable to mask her body’s unholy desire to have him touch her, lick her, _fuck her_ , anything as long as he kept going), and Sans noticed, his breath rushing from him in a rough, strident laugh as he pulled away from her for a moment, licking at the drips of arousal that had settled on his mandible.

“don’t sound like you _can_ , sweetcheeks… what’s stoppin’ ya? cat got your… tongue?” he teased gruffly, his voice deep and gratified, and rubbed the tip of said tongue over her clit, swiping it side to side and wringing a muffled but lewd exhalation from the already flustered girl, and Frisk, shaking herself from a haze of stupefying bliss, swallowed away what seemed like an exorbitant amount of saliva (she was barely keeping herself from drooling down her chin), her shoulders quivering from the effort of looking behind herself and the effect of yet another coy prod of his tongue at her entrance.

“N-no… I just need… you…” she began to expound, intending to try to convince him to listen to her, but had her speech and her breath both torn from her when Sans’s hard, rough hand slid down the slope of her ass to press a thumb to her clit, rubbing the tip against her while his thick tongue slurped at her progressively more sodden center, and her strength abandoned her completely, slumping her shoulders and head to the ground, caught up in a constant battle with herself just to keep from begging for more.

Wasn’t… her Sans…

Didn’t want… him…

God, it felt so _good_ …

Sans, upon seeing her reaction, smirked against her skin, laving his tongue over her core again before pulling away to huff out a self-satisfied chortle, continuing to rub at her clit in slow circles as he did; his sockets were lowered in sexual, gloating rapture as he watched his prey pant and squirm beneath his ministrations, his magic sparking hotly in his gaze.

“oh i _know_ you need me, sugar… just look at you writhin’ for me. you like gettin’ your snatch eaten out by a monster, i can tell by the noises you’re makin’… turns me the _fuck_ on,” he grated out lasciviously, voice tinted with huskiness and want; his thumb flicked over her clit one last time (drawing a warbling whimper from behind her clenched teeth) before his hand fell away, his tongue slicking up the inside of her thigh before resuming its previous occupation, stroking repeatedly up and around her trembling entrance.

With her cheek laid against the floor, her energy fleeing her almost entirely as her legs shook and her abdomen clenched in her growing, unwilling desire, Frisk could see, between her parted legs, Sans’s removed hand groping at the tented front of his shorts, rubbing along the length of his dick through the material as he lapped sloppily at her dripping folds (god… even the _sound_ was erotic, the wetness of the meeting, drag, and separation of his mouth on her overheated flesh making unrestrained convulsions run up her spine); he was obviously getting desperate, his hips thrusting into his palm intermittently.

As though to only cement her point, Sans chose that moment to press his tongue _into her_ , the tapering length sliding into her entrance as far as it could before being halted by the tightness of her core, effectively keeping him from doing as he had mentioned only minutes before (had it really been such a short time? She felt like she had been trembling on the floor for _hours_ …).

He struggled to push farther into her for a moment, his previously occupied hand digging a thumb into her folds and pulling to spread her wider for him, but only succeeded in making Frisk almost faint from the sensation of his tongue undulating inside the entrance to her core, shuddering weakly and panting through her nose to keep from whining in pleasure (it didn’t feel anything like when she touched herself… _god_ , how was she supposed to stay removed and unruffled during _that_ …).

Unsuccessful and panting fairly heavily himself, Sans withdrew the tip of his tongue from her and swiped the length along her drenched folds again before sitting up (leering with satisfaction at the trembling mess he had made of her with the action), his sockets lingering on her quivering, drenched flesh hungrily.

“holy _shit_ your pussy is tight… i can’t even get my fuckin’ _tongue_ in. it’s gonna be a bitch to get my cock in ya, almost like… like…” he began salaciously, vulgar and lecherous in his carnal elation, his thumb slipping along her skin to trail around her entrance teasingly, but stuttered to a halt halfway through his exclamation, his expression freezing in place and his hand stilling against her.

As Frisk watched hazily from the floor, still caught up in the heat and natural responses of her body, Sans’s brows lowered, gathering shadows as they dropped to transform his former levity into foreboding and confusion; his single flaming iris flickered, whipping from her face to between her legs several times, before, with a nervous looking lick over his teeth, he let out a shuddering breath that she hadn’t realized he was holding, his heavy gaze locking with her lidded one.

“you weren’t lyin’… you haven’t fucked him. you’re… you’re a fuckin’ _virgin_ ,” he whispered hoarsely, disbelief and consternation in his cracking voice, and Frisk, finally realizing what stopped him in the middle of his dialogue, blinked the mist of gratification from her gaze before nodding slowly, an inkling of hope rising in her chest.

He was reacting oddly to this, looked shaken and disconcerted…

Would this be what finally stopped him?

Was this the reason he needed to calm down and see that he was wrong?

“I… I tried to tell you…” she muttered back, swallowing thickly and doing her best to not get too optimistic before anything came of the situation (she’d been doing that all evening, and it was getting to be very difficult to bear), and Sans, any color lingering in his face draining away, pulled away from her in a trancelike stupor, his hands falling to his sides (consequentially snapping the band of her underwear he had been holding against her center, forcing an embarrassing squeal from her lips) and his knees sliding against the floor, collapsing him onto his right hip.

The only word she could describe his expression with was numbness, his shuttered sockets trained onto middle space and his usual grin sunk into a flat line of despondency; one of his hands moved to prop his body up on the ground, his weight shifting so he was sitting at her side, while his other rose to run backwards over the dome of his skull, settling on the back of his neck and hooking its claws into his vertebrae once there.

The corner of his mouth twitched, looking like he was vacillating between a form of complete, encompassing perplexity and overpowering, soul shattering revelation, and then the shack grew quiet, the only sounds breaking the silence the howling of the wind and the pelting of hardened flakes of snow against the windows.

Frisk, unable to help herself, stared at her comatose captor with ever more expectant keenness in her gaze, the look on Sans’s face and the fact that he had finally, _finally_ stopped touching her enlivening her; the odds of her being able to get him to see sense seemed to be growing by the second.

She couldn’t imagine why it had been him discovering her truthfulness and innocence that had pulled him out of his carnal rapture, but she’d take it.

Cautiously, and keeping an eye on Sans’s slumped form as she did (he had sat up from leaning on the floor heavily, his bracing hand rising to clutch at the thickness of one of his femurs through his shorts and his magical iris flicking over the middle distance, considering something only he could see), Frisk slid her knees backwards, lowering her raised posterior and sinking to the ground with relief, her spine tingling as feeling returned to it and her legs aching significantly less.

The cold, dusty floor was like a pillowed mattress on her tired and sore body, and it felt intensely good to relax against it.

Sans didn’t react to her sudden movement, lost to his thoughts and fluctuating between rubbing the back of his skull and shaking his head, his brow furrowed and mouth sunk into a consternated grimace, and Frisk let out a gratified sigh, wishing she could free her hands to fix her leggings (they were pooled around her knees still, catching on the splinters of one of the floorboards when she shifted) but grateful nonetheless.

Frisk spent a few moments basking in the calm of the moment, even the storm seeming to whip the sides of the shed less harshly in the gathering quiet, before pushing her shoulders back up off the ground and turning her head back towards the still comatose monster, preparing to unleash the most welcoming of her friendship speeches on him.

This was her time to shine, and she wouldn’t be brushed off by him this time, she was sure of it.

Before she could begin, however, Sans, with another scratch at the back of his head (the sound of his claws scraping over his own bones had an eerie effect, both chilling and disquieting), raised his sockets back to meet her gaze, his bony brows still lowered and the edges of his usual grin faded into bafflement.

He stared at her in silence for a short time, his breaths slow but unsteady, then cleared his throat with a rough sounding cough, both of his hands moving to splay uselessly in his lap.

“i don’t understand,” he said quietly, the admittance resonating with frustration and candor; he looked her over once, gaze shifting from the swell of her breasts to the curve of her ass, before returning to her face, a scowl of dissatisfied uncertainty darkening his expression.

“i thought he fucked you… i was _sure_ … but there’s no way he did. why? he must’ve known that you wanted him. you were practically _beggin’_ for it. and you were right _there_ … what kind of dipshit _is_ this guy? is he fuckin’ stupid?” he queried in disbelief, his gaze flicking haphazardly over her face and the beginning of a sneer pulling at the corner of his sharp toothed mouth, and Frisk, confusion and a cautioning hesitancy tugging at the edge of her consciousness (how could he know any of that? She had never told him about any of her intimate moments with Sans…), wetted her lips nervously, shifting uncomfortably against what had, a moment ago, been a fairly restful section of floor.

“He… he said he wanted it to be special… and I wanted him to be my first,” she explained diffidently, unused to explaining her sex life to anyone (monsters weren’t the most private creatures, used to sharing everything with each other, but had always treated her privacy with respect) and feeling especially awkward to be having the conversation with her almost lover’s counterpart, of all people, and Sans scoffed in response, rolling his flaming iris in its socket and looking up at the shadowy ceiling of the shack, as though asking for help from it.

“ _special_. sex ain’t fuckin’ special, genius, you don’t have to _save_ it. you didn’t even have to wait for _him;_ you don’t need to be a virgin to fuck your sou… someone you care about. it’ll still feel good, still mean somethin’,” he criticized, correcting himself on a half uttered word halfway through his diatribe oddly (what had he meant to say? It had sounded like… soul? Why would he mention that? He didn’t know her Sans was her soul mate… at least he _shouldn’t_ …), and then dropped his forehead into his hand, shaking his head and chuckling cynically.

“no fuckin’ wonder you didn’t know anythin’: your boyfriend is a pathetic shit that can’t even fuck you right. i bet he hasn’t gotten farther than first base with ya… pussy ass bitch,” he snarked, speaking matter-of-factly, as though he shouldn’t have expected differently, and Frisk bristled, scowling at the snickering skeleton monster.

“ _He_ didn’t want to hurt me. _He_ knew I’d never been with anyone, and wanted to make sure I’d be comfortable once we finally had sex! You know, like decent people do,” she snapped, glaring at Sans reproachfully, and succeeded in making him stop laughing, his smile dropping from his face to be replaced with a sarcastic leer.

“he shoulda just smacked ya around a bit… looks like that’s what gets your frigid pussy wet. maybe then he coulda talked ya into spreadin’ your fuckin’ legs for him,” he mocked, flicking his gaze pointedly down to her bared panties, and Frisk, forcedly suppressing the heat that shot through her cooling blood when she saw the flicker of interest in his gaze as he looked at her, thinned her lips, a blush climbing her cheeks unwillingly.

“ _He_ was the one that wanted to wait! _I_ wanted to have…” she started to snarl back at him, anger tinting her voice into palpable, tremulous fury, but stuttered to a halt when Sans’s grin, wide and victorious, returned at her words, her throat suddenly tight and her skin chilled.

With a gruff chuckle shaking his broad shoulders, the leering monster tsked his tongue in his smirking mouth, tutting sardonically and lowering his bony lids in salient and derisive understanding.

“ _so_ … i wasn’t wrong about ya bein’ cock hungry. he just wouldn’t put out for ya. heh… no wonder you look like you’re gonna cum every time i touch ya. you wanna know what it’s like to be with a _real_ monster…” he suggested snarkily, raising one brow bone superiorly and licking at his upper row of teeth teasingly, but Frisk was having none of it, scowling and pulling away from him in an obvious and dismissive rebuff.

“ _No._ I want _him_ , because I love him, whether he _puts out_ or not. I’ve loved him for almost the whole time I’ve known him, and that’s not just going to change because some asshole turned me on!” she shouted, her lip curling in contemptuous disdain, and, brow wrinkling in dejection, Sans sobered, his smile again fading into nothingness.

He looked like he had been hit in the face with a brick, flinching and, if her eyes didn’t deceive her, _wounded_ (Frisk stared, shocked, at the tenseness and pain in his expression, unfamiliar with the expression from him), and lowered his injured gaze, the magic in his sockets fading, with a sense of finality, back into twin pinpricks of red light.

He gazed, in silence, at his hands, lying prone and limp against his propped up knee; he seemed to be considering whether he should say something or not, indecision and reluctance and hesitancy in every line defining his expression, then slowly clenched his drooping phalanges into fists, resolve steeling his momentary feebleness.

“y’know somethin’ i don’t get?” he muttered rhetorically, voice soft but concealing a bite so sharp to it that Frisk nearly flinched, and glanced up from his lap, meeting her wide gaze accusatorially and tilting his head marginally.

“the way you talk sometimes… the way you _look_ at me… you make me feel like i’m the same as him. but then ya say shit like that, like i’m fuckin’ _inferior_ to him somehow, and i don’t know what the fuck to think. how is he better?” he demanded, his volume rising as emotion he clearly hadn’t intended to show snuck into his monologue, making his tone crack and waver.

“what makes ya want _him_ but not _me_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh ho ho... so many new questions and very few answers... <3
> 
> Thanks again for reading, I will be posting the next chapter in a week's time (and maybe a teaser to my Tumblr, who knows...), and I'm so very grateful to all of you for sticking with me. There is so much more ahead <3


	5. The Devil's Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “as far as i’m concerned… the fact that your little boyfriend didn’t have the balls to screw you while he had the chance is his fuckin’ loss. finder’s keepers, buttercup. i’ll be your first, your last, and your only… because you’re mine now,” he vowed maliciously, and leaned even further over her, pushing his sharp toothed, panting mouth against the side of her face jarringly.
> 
> “and i’m gonna fuck you so hard that you never forget that i’m. not. him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what day it is? :D ...hump day >:) I said I'd deliver, and hey, do I deliver or what? XD I'm so tired.
> 
> Anyways... on to business. This chapter, we AT LAST get to the bone zone. It includes violence and non-consensual sex, so no young'uns; that means you, you under 18 year olds. It also includes BDSM, edging, biting, spanking, scratching, choking (very light), and very rough sex.
> 
> PSA: this is not an example of a healthy sexual relationship. This is not a good BDSM setup. Do NOT use this story as an example. Please, please, never treat anyone like this without their permission. Always, ALWAYS get consent.
> 
>  
> 
> And... that's it for now XD Enjoy.
> 
> Some art for your face-  
> http://kurohaai.tumblr.com/image/144337670620  
> http://kurohaai.tumblr.com/image/143849824520  
> http://kurohaai.tumblr.com/image/143295915815  
> http://kurohaai.tumblr.com/image/142583297315  
> http://solaceblues.tumblr.com/image/144595682049  
> http://kenyaketchup.tumblr.com/post/144083072627
> 
> Visit my Tumblr, for updates, fanart, summaries of future fanfics, and other shenanigans!  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thebananafrappe

* * *

Frisk could only gape back at the clearly slighted monster torpidly, unsure of how to handle this new development.

Why was he acting like this?

He had never acted like he cared about what she thought of him before… he had laughed in her face and slammed her head into a wall when she had told him, a week into her imprisonment, that she didn’t like how she was being treated.

What had changed?

Why did it matter so much to him now, after he had treated her with such disdain and brutality and malice before?

Frisk didn’t understand, and it was making her head swim just trying to; this Sans had always been odd to her, so different from his other self but also, in strange ways, just like him, but had always made sense to her.

Even in his cruelest moments she had known why he did what he did, even if she didn’t really appreciate it.

Now, with his mood swings and jealous fervor and inferiority complex, his mysteriously knowledgeable comments about her past and his salacious lust, she just couldn’t see where he was coming from.

How did he _think_ she was supposed to feel for someone that had beaten her and harassed her and forced himself on her?

Frisk, supremely confused and beginning to feel a little sick with apprehension (where was this going?), shifted nervously on the floor, pulling at the still present shackles around her wrists furtively and, regrettably, unsuccessfully, then sighed, biting at her lower lip fretfully.

“I… I’ve known him for years. We went through a lot together. He was always there for me, treated me well, trusted me… loved me. He protected me, made me laugh, was absorbed into another monster and used for power, for me…” she enumerated, remembering the horror of seeing his lost soul, depressed and adrift and tired of trying (“just give up… i did…”); tears rose to her eyes and a small, crooked smile lifted her torn lips.

Outside her circle of reminiscence, Sans twitched at the sight of her smile, gaze glued to her mouth almost rapturously; his hands jerked towards her, entranced, but he stopped himself, digging his fingers into the leg of his shorts instead.

Unaware of her audience’s preoccupation, Frisk went on, wiping her tears on her hunched shoulders as she did, her eyes faraway and lit with the love she felt for her oldest friend, her soul mate.

“He shared everything with me, helped me in my science classes, held me through my nightmares… never judged me for my mood swings or my stupid haircuts or… or… when I was a silly little girl trying to impress him,” she ruminated, wanting to both laugh and cry as she thought about all of the reckless things she had done to get Sans to give her the affection she craved from him (the stupidest one by far had been the nice cream bar incident; she had yet to live _that_ one down, because he brought it up every time they got some, winking and nudging her teasingly the whole time), and closed her eyes, shaking her head and grinning wistfully.

She missed his puns and his lazy smiles and his warm embraces… his wandering hands and husky whispers and passionate kisses… she missed _him_ , so much.

Letting out a half chuckle, Frisk reopened her eyes and glanced at the other Sans, his sockets riveted to her face and a flush of red magic spread lightly across his cheekbones (what was he blushing for?), a look of assurance in her gaze.

“He is so special to me. I love him, completely.”

Silence fell between the two after her admission, Sans’s gaze flicking up to hers; he looked resentful, the edge of his carefully non-committal frown curling scornfully at the emotion and fondness in her tone.

With a scoff, the skeleton waved a hand through the air, as though dismissing her explanation entirely.

“so basically… he just had more time with ya,” he observed sullenly, disregard and arrogant contempt in his tone; rolling his iris again, he shifted against the floorboards, scratching at his shoulder and resettling his legs to be more comfortable.

Sans then tapped a forefinger against his knee for a moment, looking over her face as though searching for something that couldn’t be seen, then took a deep breath, nodding to himself.

“i could be good to you, make ya happy, if you give me time too,” he pressed, sounding confident but edgy at the same time, then shrugged in an attempt to appear uncaring, looking to the side and, huffing, clenching his hand around one of his patellae (if Frisk had been able to look away from his face, she would have seen that his hands were shaking).

“i’ll take ya somewhere safer, better for you. we could… i dunno. see more of each other. talk, about stuff other than the past. get to know each other. spend some time not arguing,” he offered, avoiding her gaze and shifting his jaw tautly; his voice sounded tight, rough like there was something stuck in his throat, and, on the sides of his skull, beads of sweat were building, glinting in the sparse light.

Frisk, wide eyed and in frozen shock, could only stare at the uncomfortable looking monster next to her, terrible realization creeping into her mind; if this was going where she thought it was (she really hoped it wasn’t), then she would _definitely_ be out of her depth, never once having considered that he might... _feel_ something for her.

How could _he_ , the monster that had nearly beaten her to death and had treated her so badly she actually wished she _was_ dead, be thinking and saying these things to her?

Surely this was some sort of sick joke.

He didn’t look like he was joking though, nervousness and self-consciousness in his twitching, half-hearted grin; he looked like this was the last thing he wanted to be talking about, but also the most important thing he had ever said in his life.

Maybe she was hallucinating, her empty stomach finally revolting against her and making her see and hear things that weren’t really there.

That would make more sense than him doing… this.

Sans, one of his hands rising to wipe at his skull uneasily, furrowed his brow bones even further, the scarlet dots of light in his sockets shrinking minutely.

“i know you miss him… that you’re lonely, and sad, and scared… but you don’t hafta be. i can be what ya need,” he muttered gruffly, clearly unused to sentiment, as his sockets lowered to the floor and he ran the tip of one of his fingers along a crack in one of the floorboards, visibly unsure of what to do with his hands.

He obviously didn’t like talking about her attachment to her Sans, if she could tell anything from his sarcastic sneer when mentioning him, but everything else he said with solemn surety, his gravelly voice adding an element of emotion to his speech that she had never heard from him before.

He glanced over at Frisk quickly, from the corners of his eye sockets, and then glanced back down again before continuing, his vertebrae and jaw shifting as though he was swallowing.

“i could keep ya company, provide for you, keep you safe, give ya whatever you wanted… make you feel good. i ain’t a bad fuck; i know what to do to get you hot, how to make you go crazy with pleasure… how to make you cum ‘til you can’t anymore. i could… y’know, treat ya how you deserve… help you forget what ya lost,” he promised quietly, biting at his lower lip line and scratching the tip of his extended forefinger over a protruding knot in the board he was inspecting, seeming to brace himself for something… and then looked straight into Frisk’s eyes, stern doggedness melting into a quirky, sheepish half-smile that looked so familiar and welcoming and sincere that her heart seized in her chest.

Her Sans smiled like that, looked at her like _that_ , with adoration and humor and lifelong promises echoing in his gaze, and the similarity threw her off balance so severely that she felt dizzy.

Sans, outside Frisk’s clamoring conscience, scooted a little closer to her, almost jittery with eagerness.

“i ain’t perfect. i’ll probably fuck up a lot, and… hurt you… i’m pretty messed up. but i… i wanna try. let me try, and maybe… maybe you could find out you could love me too, someday,” he muttered sanguinely, hope and anticipation and a frank sort of affection in his lambent gaze, and Frisk, stunned speechless, could only blink numbly back at him, mind blank and mouth hanging open.

The tone shift from him beating and groping her to practically confessing to her was palpable in the air, like a rift torn in space; she had thought this was where the one sided conversation had been heading, but it had still struck her dumb, a lack of words and breath both plaguing her.

He couldn’t possibly expect a positive response.

He had to know what she felt about him, after spending so long telling him that she hated him; he wasn’t a stupid monster, was quite intelligent, in fact, and should be able to get the idea that she couldn’t feel the same way he did (whatever it was he felt for her, that was… he hadn’t really said).

Despite knowing that she didn’t want him, though, despite forcefully reminding herself of all the wrong that he had done and forced on her, her heart still beat passionately quickly in her chest, pushing heated blood through her body to stain her cheeks and dizzy her mind.

Frisk felt the telltale surge of affection and acceptance flow through her, a response she always had when her Sans told her how much he loved her, and repressed it with all her might, knowing that she couldn’t afford to feel even the slightest thing for this Sans if she hoped to hold on to her sanity and her resolve to return to her own world.

The heat that had slowly faded into a plaintive throb in her abdomen also reignited, lit by the promise of how well he could please her if she just gave in to him; she remembered perfectly well how good he felt against her, how skillful his tongue was and how she ached to lean into his touch.

She couldn’t though, was determined to resist the siren call of pleasure she had waited so long to have; he wasn’t the Sans she craved, however much he felt and sounded like him, and would stay loyal, especially now that her tormentor seemed to be softening and allowing her a choice.

What perhaps mattered even more than her own scruples was all of what he had just revealed about himself, though; he had basically laid his soul bare, offering her a life with him that would reinstate, or at least replace, what she had lost in her world.

He had offered himself, with all of his weaknesses and shortcomings, and hoped it was enough.

Frisk felt cruel beyond measure that she couldn’t return those feelings, that she had to push him away and potentially hurt his feelings, but knew that she had to. 

She couldn’t string him along, no matter how much he wanted her or how he made her feel or how her body and soul insisted, almost deafeningly, that _this_ was the one for her.

She knew who she wanted, and it wasn’t him.

“I… I’m sorry… but he’s the only one I’ll ever love. Please… let me go. You’re not… him,” she whispered apologetically, her lower lip trembling in the intensity of her sympathy and heartbreak for him (she didn’t want to hurt him, no matter what he had done to her); she would have reached out to him if she could have, but pinioned as her hands were, she could only stare, and as such was witness to his reaction.

She would claim to herself, later, that she didn’t know Sans would respond the way he did… but the sinking feeling she got in her stomach as soon as she saw him flinch at her words testified otherwise.

Her excusal struck with keen sharpness, not meant to be cruel but harsh nevertheless, and gutted the hopeful expectation from his posture and expression instantaneously, collapsing him backwards with an almost physical force.

Rejection and pain reigned over Sans’s expression in the absence of his optimism, his sockets scrunching closed and one of his hands rising to grasp at the center of his chest (Frisk’s heart throbbed in reflected discomfort, sorrow for him flowing through her veins), and his shoulders fell, sinking into dejection and defeat.

She almost started crying, empathetic and saddened, when the fingers digging into his jacket front clenched tighter, a grunt of pain leaking past his closed teeth.

He sat in silence, for a long moment, his back hunched and his breathing heavy, before he shook his head, as though shaking some thought away, and his eye sockets reopened; Frisk was stunned out of her compassion almost immediately, in the wake of his pained refutation, as dread settled over her at the sight of his expression.

There was vivid, fuming resentment now shining in his hardening, downward gaze, pulling his bony lip, before softened into the most relaxed expression she had ever seen on his face, into a grimace of reproach and offense.

With an exhaled, snarling growl, Sans raised his gaze back to hers; his ivory lids were lowered into stark, unforgiving fury, his magic blazing back to life in his glaring socket, and as she watched, his jaw clenched, anger and hurt and retribution in the line of his gritted teeth.

“because i’m not _him_ ,” he repeated, his tone carefully soft and bland, almost uncaring, and then slammed the fisted hand that had clutched at his ribs, right above his soul, against the floorboards at his side abruptly (they creaked and groaned in protest, one bending and cracking beneath the force of the blow), making Frisk jump nervously at the sudden violent movement.

He sneered at her quailing, animosity and rejection dripping from his clenched, bared teeth.

“no… i’m not him. you’ve made that fact abundantly _fuckin’_ clear. but ya know what? maybe that’s a good thing. _he_ was a flowery, weak little shit that never even tried to keep you… and you’re _damn_ straight that i’m not like that,” he hissed, his wrath echoing in his shaking, gravely tone; his hands, clenched and trembling against the floor, uncurled and extended to push his body up out of his former slump, his sharp claws raking across the wooden boards with a deliberate, ear piercing shriek.

Frisk flinched at the jarring noise, shaking her head to clear it from her ears, but then froze when she saw, from the corner of her eye, Sans’s regained posture; he had raised himself to his knees, the sheer size of him casting an ominous shadow over her shivering, flattened form (she had sunk as far against the ground as she could, whimpers of fear pulsing in her throat), and was glaring down at her with a hateful sneer exposing his sharp teeth, the monster that had so softly confessed a desire to protect and care for her extinguished in the wake of his vehemence.

He huffed out a humorless chuckle at her cringing, bony brows lowered so severely over his sparking magic iris that a dark shadow spread across the expanse of his sockets and the bridge of his nasal cavity; he dragged himself across the floor to regain his place behind her, roughly shoving her legs out of the way to make room for himself between them and intentionally dragging the sharp points of his finger bones up the backs of her thighs, leaving scratches that quickly welled with dark red blood and made her cry out in rapidly quieted pain.

Once resettled between Frisk’s spread legs, Sans, without preamble, dug the fingers of one hand into the fabric of her rumpled panties (her whole body jerked at the abrupt action, her eyes wide and neck straining to see what he was doing), phalanges tight around the thin material; his other hand planted itself on her waist pointedly, squeezing harshly and painfully.

His voice, still trembling with rage, hissed through his clenched teeth at her, tinted with the same cruel revenge that made his nails dig into her flesh.

“so when ya say _i’m not him_ … i gotta agree with ya. i’m not a sackless pussy that’ll let you flirt with and tease me for _years_ and do nothin’ but jack off to a picture of you, like him. i’m not scared to take what i want from ya because i’m afraid of hurtin’ you, like _him_. i’m not willin’ to let you slip from my grasp, _like him_ ,” he snapped, voice growing in volume as he released all his pent up frustration; the crack in his skull was glimmering with his unstable magic, a flush of red tinting the bone beneath his narrowed sockets.

“you fucked up, woman. you made the mistake of assumin’ i was givin’ you a choice, like _he_ did… you never had one, not from the moment i saw you. you were _always_ gonna to be mine. now, though… now i’m gonna show you _why_ ,” he snarled viciously, his fangs grinding together audibly and his fingers clenching tightly against her skin, digging in and drawing blood; he looked terrifying, large and intimidating and dangerous, but this was not what gave Frisk pause (though perhaps it should have), not what made her mind clunk to a halt.

She, wide eyed, felt shock come over her as she registered his words and their implications, stunned into silence and inaction; he was talking about things that her Sans had told her, _again_ , things that she had never told _him_ , that he should have no way of knowing, and it was causing her a great deal of distress.

Could it really be a coincidence that he said those things like he did, like he _knew_ they had happened, or could he actually know?

How could that _be_?

She didn’t have long to think about it, though, because she was inexplicably drawn from her thoughts by Sans’s encroaching hand yanking, forcefully, at the fabric of her underwear; they stretched and drew tight against her skin uncomfortably, the stitching making tiny ripping noises as he exerted his strength.

She squirmed anxiously at the feeling, flushing and spluttering the beginning of a denial as the material dug into her still dripping slit, but fell silent, shrinking back against the floor, when the monster holding her to the ground growled at her, animalistic in his rage.

“shut up, whore; you’ve said _enough_ ,” he barked savagely, glowering at her threateningly, then watched her cower in silence challengingly, as though waiting for her to talk back to him.

Frisk saw the wisdom in keeping her silence, however, tight throat preventing everything but her shaky, petrified, and shallow breaths anyway (as much as she would like to ream him for telling her what to do, now was _definitely_ not the time), and Sans, seeing that she wasn’t going to respond, smirked ruthlessly, serious but satisfied.

He pulled again at the lacy panties he clutched, and one of the straps tore at the seam, snapping away from her skin and making a jolt of intense and mortified awareness clutch at her heart; his grip on the tearing material tightened as he registered the rend, and looked from his clenched fist to her trembling profile sullenly, clarity and sinister assurance in his gaze.

“ _i’m_ never gonna let you go. fuck the surface. fuck the underground. _fuck them all._ i don’t give a shit… they can find another human. _i’m_ gonna keep you ‘til the day you die, whether you want me or not. and if you try to leave… if _anyone_ tries to take you from me… you’ll find out just how little like that wuss i really am,” he swore gratingly, his deep voice rumbling with the depth of his affirmation, then, with a shark-like grin taking over his snarl, ripped the rest of her panties from her body harshly, tossing the shredded material to the side afterwards and looking, with profane and carnal hunger, on her bared, still convulsing core.

It was ridiculous that she could still feel his tongue slicking over her folds, dipping into her entrance and pressing, skillfully, against her clit, but she could, was still throbbing with need after having his mouth on her, and it was humiliating; his heated gaze on her exposed flesh wasn’t helping, either.

Sans, after a moment of gazing rapturously at her sloppily wet center, let out a deep, rumbling breath, slowly licking at an escaping trail of drool dripping down his chin; Frisk quailed, expecting the worst, when the hand that had been pinned to her waist smoothed down over the curve of her posterior.

He did nothing but squeeze her ass, though, snickering heartily at her expression of trepidation, then removed his hand completely, settling back on the balls of his feet and looking down on her with cruel vengeance in his gaze. 

“i’d changed my mind. i was gonna back off… take my time with ya, since you’re inexperienced and young and, y’know, ‘cuz i wanted to be fuckin’ _nice_. but since you’re so bound and fuckin’ determined to have me be different than him… why wait? that’s what _he_ would do. he’d have been gentle. he’d have gone slow. fuck it, right? _i’m not him_ ,” he quoted acerbically, bitterly malicious and mocking, then plucked at the zipper pull of his jacket with jerky, tense movements, tugging it down so he could shrug the flaps of his coat to the side, out of the way.

“so i’m gonna fuck you how i please, right here on the damn floor; we’ll see if you change your fuckin’ tune next time,” he growled, grasping the hem of his red sweater and yanking it up and over his pelvis and lower ribs, and Frisk, her heart in her throat, felt her breath seize in her chest.

Did he actually mean that? Had he meant to spare her?

She didn’t know, and it made a modicum of shame and disappointment in herself clutch at her soul; she couldn’t possibly have promised herself to him, not when she meant to return to her Sans, but…

If what he claimed was true, then he had meant to treat her right, to try to make up for what he had done and not force her to sleep with him.

And then she had shattered his hope, turning optimism for companionship into rejection and jealousy.

That definitely didn’t make what he was doing right, and the more Frisk thought about it, the more she felt like it would be very, _very_ hard to forgive him for it (in part because of how he was making her feel, another because, well, he was taking her against her will, as well as knowing full well that she had wanted to save herself), but thinking about it…

Knowing that she had hurt him so badly with her dismissal…

Made her feel a bit heartless.

Frisk was forced out of her thoughts when behind her, just out of view, she heard the drag of metal shifting against leather, the clink of a belt buckle falling against itself, and the ragged, tearing sound of another zipper being undone; all the color drained from her face, instantly understanding what he was doing, and, in a last ditch effort to thwart him, tried one again to pull her body away from him, yanking uselessly at the glowing shackles around her wrists as she did.

His large, hard hand fisted in the material of her bunched up dress, though, shocking her with its sudden appearance and instantly halting her anxious escape attempt; he used the material to drag her back to him, lifting her posture back up from where she had slumped down in exhaustion and fear.

“goin’ somewhere, slut?” he growled, dropping the fabric in his grip once Frisk was close to how he wanted her (her back was arched low once again as her chest pressed against the floor and her arms stretched out in front of her, her legs spread dissolutely and her drenched, glistening core on full display), then settled both of his hands on her waist, his predatory grin dripping with nastiness and sexuality.

“and here we are again. i’m sure you’re gettin’ pretty tired of kneelin’ like that… but you’re gonna be on your knees in front of me a lot, so get fuckin’ used to it,” he informed her darkly, callous and punitive, then scooted further into the cradle of her thighs, pulling her against him with tightened fingers.

Frisk barely held back a gasp at the intense warmth that slid along her slit as his hips met hers, the thick width of his bared cock spreading her folds and bathing her cooling arousal in heat; the flow of the magic moving through him, of his desire for her, throbbed against the apex of her, drawing a shiver of awareness and a hormone induced, deep seated desire for _more_ from her.

Her reaction didn’t go unnoticed, either, much to her dismay; a glance over her shoulder revealed the justified smirk she liked to see least on Sans’s face, merciless knowledge and cruel satisfaction in his sparking gaze.

Amused and aroused, the acerbic monster snickered roughly, deep in his chest cavity, and bucked his hips against his prisoner, the length of his cock gliding effortlessly through the still present slick of her arousal; the magical appendage rubbed insistently along her clit on its descent, stimulating the already on edge and trembling girl, and the skeleton above her grinned widely at the muffled whine the friction elicited, digging his fingers further into her skin.

“ya like that, huh? you’d better… i like to fuck, a whole _hell_ of a lot, and i have a feelin’ i’m gonna like fuckin’ _you_ just as much. let’s just call it a… dick-stinct,” he snarked huskily, clearly pleased with himself over his play on words as he thrust against her again lazily, content, for the moment, with just rubbing himself through Frisk’s sopping folds.

He seemed to relish the sounds she made while attempting to quiet her flustered whimpers, his tongue hanging over the edge of his parted fangs as he shifted his hips forwards and backwards meticulously, never enough to actually pleasure her but enough to make her squirm and bite back stimulated, needy moans.

Frisk, distress and self-preservation ricocheting in her mind, tried to collapse her knees, the very real fear of him forcing himself into her freezing her blood in her veins (he felt too big to be real, _far_ bigger than his tongue, and even that had stretched her uncomfortably), but his clutching hands held her up easily, his claws scraping along her sides discouragingly.

Trembling intensely again, she let out a quiet sob, the smooth, incredibly warm surface of Sans’s dick pushing against her trapped and immobilized body once more.

“Please… _stop_ …” she whimpered, panic clawing at her heart when, with another gyration of his hips, her captor dragged the head of his cock far too close to her entrance for comfort (no… no, he couldn’t do this to her…), but if he heard her, he didn’t show it, only pushing his hips against hers with more force the next time he thrust them forwards.

Sans, obviously enjoying himself, laughed sinisterly as he stilled the rocking of his hips slowly, stopping at his own leisure and not before; he leaned to the side, keeping his balance by digging his claws painfully into Frisk’s hips, to look at her scrunched up, flushed, tear streaked face, a sharp edge of malevolence and sick gratification to his grin.

Sarcastic contemplation overtook his expression for a moment, one of his brow bones rising disdainfully; chuckling to himself and shaking his head, he reached out a hand to tuck a forefinger beneath Frisk’s chin, turning her face so that she was looking at him.

He smirked at her coldly once he had her attention, locking his sparking gaze with her watery one.

“y’know what’s funny, girlie? if you’d fallen to this underground first… if you’d come to me before him… you’d have saved me instead. grown up with me. loved _me_ ,” he informed her with surety in his deep voice, painting a vivid and chilling picture of a future she simply could not imagine (things would have been incredibly different… there was no guarantee that she’d have even _survived_ in this world as a child), dragging the sharp tip of his claw over the curve of her chin lingeringly before returning his hand to her ass and squeezing roughly.

Frisk, inhaling sharply at the feeling of his hand cupping her posterior, fidgeted timidly, overwhelmed by the sensation of his body against hers and the situation at hand and the demanding awareness of his cock, throbbing regularly and distractingly, settled too close to her entrance.

She had to say something… he was going too far, assuming too much…

“I… that’s not…” she spluttered, frantic to divert him, but fell silent when his satirical levity darkened into threatening reprimand, shrinking away from him as far as she could get with her heart beating fearfully in her throat; there wasn’t far she could go though, tied and held down as she was, and as such was subject to the jarring, painful slap he delivered to her bruising ass, applied with as much force as he could put behind it.

A loud yelp of pain escaped her, nearly tearing her vocal cords with its volume, before she clamped her lips shut and ducked her chin, fresh tears pouring from her eyes as she submitted to his silent rebuke; glancing back resentfully, Frisk could see that Sans was pleased with her reaction, sadistic hedonism in the candescence of his gaze and the curve of his cruel grin.

“i told you to be _quiet_ , bitch… you’d better **_obey_** if you don’t want it worse than you’ll already be gettin’ it,” he warned her bitingly, irritation threatening at the edge of his brutal humor, and Frisk, firmly resisting the urge to spit on him again (he was angry enough… if he had something worse than this that he could do to her, she didn’t want to find out what it was), looked away from him petulantly, her cheeks burning with shame and, against her will, arousal.

He may not have been able to see her face, but he wasn’t blind to her body’s response (that’s all it was… a grudging and physiological reaction…), her center twitching spasmodically against his hardness; his nasty smile only grew when he felt it, a snort of knowing amusement escaping him, before he bent the whole of his body over her, pressing his rib cage into her back and supporting his weight on one of his hands, placed beside her head, while holding her shuddering hips up with the other.

He took a moment to settle into his new position, shifting his hand on her waist and shuffling his knees so his femurs pressed to the backs of her thighs (inadvertently thrusting his hips against her several times as he moved, the pressure of his size and position pressing his cock against her center heavily), before, with an exhaled grunt that ruffled the hair that hung over her right ear, Sans stilled, a gruff chuckle rumbling against her back.

“heh… you fit just right, dontcha… almost like you were made for me. like you were _meant_ to be beneath me, takin’ my cock…” he mused ominously, his rough voice only inches from her ear; he rolled his hips as evidence of his claim, emphasizing how every part of him encompassed her (as well as stroking the length of his dick up her center, eliciting a forcibly silent shudder from Frisk, her eyes widening when he again came too close to her entrance).

Sans, breathing out another gravelly chortle at her silence and trembling both, bent closer to her, brushing the tip of his tongue over the shell of her ear where it peeked out of her hair and grinning sinisterly when she gasped and flinched away from him.

He met her gaze when she tilted her head carefully to the side, brazen in his success in getting her to look back at him, and smirked superiorly, crooking a brow bone at her shrewdly.

“if you’d come here first… fallen for _me_ … you’d have wanted me like you want him. you’d have been dreamin’ of this moment for fuckin’ _years_ , fingered your virgin pussy while thinkin’ about me havin’ my way with ya… imagined me finally takin’ ya, fillin’ your tight little snatch with my cock,” he goaded, shifting his hips side to side provocatively against her (and rubbing his heavy dick against her center as he did), watching her face contort in an attempt to withhold her pleasure with vindictiveness so deep and harsh that it bordered on glee.

He watched her writhe beneath him as he teased her, savage, merciless pleasure pulling his mouth up into a crooked smile as he clearly enjoying her discomfort and muted arousal, then leaned further over her, pressing his chest down onto her back forcefully and making Frisk grit her teeth in pain, her ribs crying out in protest at the pressure.

“if you had come to me first, you’d have saved yourself for _me_ … wantin’ _me_ to be _the one_ … then again, _i_ wouldn’t have made ya wait like he did. we’d have been bangin’ like rabbit monsters,” he mocked caustically, his hot, nicotine saturated breath basking the side of her face in sticky warmth as he flaunted his superiority, and Frisk, doing her damnedest not to think of that circumstance ( _would_ she have felt the same for the both of them? She wanted to say no, but truly had no idea), drew in a shuddering breath, glancing behind her with her eyes full of pitiful, fearful tears.

“Sans… _please_ …” she cried, begging for mercy from his onslaught of spitefulness and harsh, vengeful fury, and at the sound of his name, for a split second, she thought she saw him soften, thought she saw him pause, rethink what he was doing…

But then his pain and his anger and his _determination_ returned, full force, and he brought his hand up from where it was clenched around her waist to push her face down, against the ground, sneering savagely down at her.

“that’s all fuckin’ moot though, ain’t it? _i’m not him,_ ” he whispered viciously, leaning further down to bring their faces closer and digging his hard, cruel fingers into the back of her head painfully; there was something close to hatred in his gaze now, narrowing his sockets and sharpening the tilt of his grimace.

He pushed her head against the ground again, firmly and silently commanding she keep it there, before moving his hand back to her hip and clenching his nails into her flesh, scraping and drawing blood purposefully.

“as far as i’m concerned… the fact that your little boyfriend didn’t have the balls to screw you while he had the chance is his fuckin’ loss. _finder’s keepers_ , buttercup. i’ll be your first, your last, and your _only_ … because you’re _mine_ now,” he vowed maliciously, and leaned even further over her, pushing his sharp toothed, panting mouth against the side of her face jarringly.

“and i’m gonna fuck you so hard that you _never_ forget that _i’m. not. **him**_ ,” he snarled into her ear, his claws digging further into her skin and the floorboard beside her face (wood shavings curled away from his nails as he clenched his fingers); he shifted her hips higher, beneath his bulk, his probing cock sliding wetly along her folds before, with a feeling of absolute dread, Frisk felt the tip of his dick find her entrance.

Sans clearly felt it too, because his breath caught slightly, his slavering jaws pulled into an almost gleeful grin… and his hips thrust forward with the force of a battering ram, burying himself in her with one harsh movement.

The pain was instant, and stole the breath from her body; he wasn’t particularly long, but was _very_ thick, and stretched her walls in a way that they never had been, making her feel as though she was being torn apart from the inside.

Tears of pain rose to cloud her eyes, immediately spilling down her cheeks, and a ragged, wet sounding sob escaped her parted lips; she did her best to do as Undyne had always told her when she got an injury, to not focus on the pain but instead on her surroundings and emotions, but it wasn’t working…

Frisk could feel him over her, his breath on her neck as he let out a long, pleasure filled groan and his nails on her skin where he was clutching at her hip, could feel him _in_ her, throbbing and heavy… it hurt, it hurt so much, she wanted to be far away and not here, not being forced to have sex with a monster that never would have done this to her a month ago.

Outside her pain filled reverie, she felt a reverberation in Sans’s chest, either a laugh or a growl, she had no idea, before he shifted his knees (settling himself more comfortably?) and, inevitably, moved inside of her as he did; she flinched at the sharp pain this elicited, crying out softly through her tears.

She felt him stop, when she vocalized her discomfort, and felt another rush of hot breath against her neck; from the corner of her eye, she saw that his head was bowed, sweat standing out against his skull, and that he wore a strained expression, his teeth gritted.

“shit…” he grunted coarsely, after a few seconds had passed from him moving; he glanced up at her from under lowered eyelids, mouth twitching up into a saliva coated smirk when he found her watching him.

“you’re so tight i can barely move… _stars_ , it feels so fuckin’ good,” he panted heatedly, then leaned down and licked languidly over the raised surface of her right scapula, bared by the drooping of her torn dress, a trail of red saliva lingering in its passing.

“i won’t bother to ask what you think of my cock yet... i’ll wait ‘til i’ve gotten ya off on it,” he leered, his tongue trailing up her neck and over her chin to lick a tear from her cheek, and Frisk, overwhelmed and in a great deal of pain, flinched away from him, pleading with him with her eyes.

“Please… it hurts… _don’t_ …” she whispered, hopeful of perhaps touching the mercy he sometimes exhibited, but only got a frown and a snort in response, her captor’s sockets narrowing.

“good. i fuckin’ _want_ it to. you wanted to be a fuckin’ bitch? fine. now you’ll take it like a bitch. tomorrow we’ll see if you wanna play nice, and maybe then y’can complain if i hurt ya,” Sans snapped, his magic flaring so close to her that she felt it tingling across her skin; his hand shifted on her hip, sliding to anchor in the curve of it and her thigh.

“tonight, though… you’re gettin’ fucked ‘til you can’t _breathe_ without it hurtin’, and you’re gonna _like_ it,” he hissed, and then he was moving in her, pulling his hips back and slamming them back against her, seemingly, as hard as he could.

His thrusts were shallow, but rough and jarring, and came at a bruising pace; the slick of her unwilling arousal aided him in sliding in and out of her tight core with little trouble despite his size.

Frisk cried out hoarsely with each meeting of his pelvis against her skin, the sharp agony of his brutal rutting coupling with the shame of her degradation; her nails bit into her own palms, her knees jolted against the floor with his thrusts, and, between her legs, the pain only grew as he forced himself deeper into her, silent sobs shaking her chest.

She tried desperately to think of something, anything else, trying to take herself out of this awful moment and distance herself from her own violation, but each inch he slid back into her, each grunted explicative he let out, and each press of his nails into her skin grounded her, forcing her to bear witness to the tears pooling on the wood beneath her cheek and the wet, dirty slap of his bones meeting the backs of her thighs.

Another sob left her cracked, bloody lips, and Frisk closed her eyes tightly, wishing desperately for the end.

Above her, the position Sans had forced himself into was starting to get awkward, obvious that it was difficult for him to move the way he wanted to, hunched over as he was, so it was little surprise that he pushed himself up to his knees after another minute or so of crushing her against the ground, both of his hands settling onto the roundness of her hips tightly.

He had a much better angle, from his new position; he dug his thumbs lewdly into Frisk’s ass cheeks, pulling to spread her for him, and then forcefully resumed his violent pace, stroking his thick cock even further into her with frequent, lustful groans of exertion and pleasure.

Sans’s first thrust seated his dick fully, for the first time, and tore a yelp of shocked stimulation from the unprepared girl, her eyes snapping open; the different angle had let him brush the fullness of his girth along _something_ previously unknown in her, something that shot sparks of white into her vision and forced into her bleary awareness that it had felt… almost good.

It was a pleasure pain (definitely focusing on the pain more… _please_ …) unlike anything Frisk had ever felt, her fingers a far reaching and insufficient comparison to the fullness of the monster stretching her farther than she had thought possible; each new stroke of him along her walls was, while still uncomfortable, starting to hurt less, now that she thought about it, and to feel more like the buildup to something both terrible and magnificent.

She hoped she was wrong, begged, in her fuzzy and scattered mind, that she wouldn’t start enjoying this, but was interrupted when Sans let out a throaty chuckle, punctuated with a low grunt of satisfaction; when she look back at him, he was smirking deviously, beads of red tinted sweat standing out on his ivory forehead and a line of drool dripping from his parted teeth.

“i heard that, whore… _somebody_ likes gettin’ it balls deep,” he taunted, a razor edge of carnal pride to his gravelly voice, and shoved his hips forward again, bottoming out inside her pointedly.

Another shocked cry of arousal escaped her at the heated friction, making a shamed flush overtake her cheeks, and Sans, vindicated, grinned wickedly at her, licking over his dripping fangs languidly before dipping his chin and directing his sockets to between her legs, watching, rabidly fascinated, as he withdrew and sank himself into her again, thumbs digging harder into her ass to get a better view.

“ya sure fuckin’ do, too… you’re even wetter now than when i was lickin’ your sweet little cunt. such a dirty slut… so good at takin’ cock, and so _hot_ for me…” he uttered fervidly, almost to himself, gaze riveted to their connection and open mouth panting out nearly constant, husky growls of gratification, and Frisk, shuddering as heat bloomed in her abdomen (no, no…she wasn’t getting turned on…), bit at her swollen and bloody lower lip, looking for any way to stifle the barrage of moans that threatened her control.

She was trying to hang on to the ache of her stretched muscles, the splinters digging into her raw skin through her leggings, and the hard reminder in her awareness that she was being _raped_ , but she, with dread, noted the fading of the pain beneath the overpowering, consuming pressure of him stimulating her trembling inner walls, instinct and chemicals and hormones clouding her mind; she tried her damnedest, really she did, to keep from letting her unwilling pleasure show.

It wouldn’t be silenced though, seemed to betray her out of spite, in fact, and snuck between her clenched lips in whimpers and quiet pants; she attempted to hide it, disguise it as continued disgraced crying, but, with his unnatural senses, Sans had already heard her, and let it show, his gaze rising, shocked but titillated, from between her legs and to her averted profile.

“would ya fuckin’ listen to _that_ …” he sneered, his top row of teeth lowering to bite wantonly at his bony lower lip; his clawed, vicelike hands gripped her ass harder, his thrusts slowing for a moment while he considered what he could see of her face.  

“judgin’ from all the noise, it must feel pretty good, finally gettin’ the cock you’ve been dreamin’ of… finally gettin’ _fucked_ like the filthy whore you are…” he purred suggestively, lifting one hand to trail down the back of her neck, along her spine, and down her side lingeringly, and Frisk shivered, over stimulated, before shaking her head shortly and decisively, defiant until the end.

Sans’s empty eye socket darkened for a moment, following her denial; he looked murderous, his grin shrinking slowly from his face.

But then he rallied, though with a sharper edge to his smirk now; he pushed the material of her dress up her back with one hand, throwing it over her bra connecters, and then, vengefully, dug his claws into her bared flesh and raked them downwards, leaving five long, bloody trails across her spine and lower back in their wake.

His magic flared cruelly when she cried out at the sharp pain, arching her back in agony, and, grinning sadistically, he smeared one of his fingers through a rivulet of her now dripping blood, drawing a stylized ‘S’ on her hip purposefully.

“ _no_? you tellin’ me you need _more_? stars, princess, you sure ask a lot… but for you? _anythin’_ ,” he opined nastily, acerbic and derisive, then kneed her legs further apart roughly, scooting forward into the cradle of her thighs as he did (his cock sank into her jarringly, jerking a quickly hushed grunt from her); his smile dropped away completely, and instead set into a scowl, a glare of retribution lowering his eyelids menacingly.

“just remember that _you_ fuckin’ asked for this,” he snarled, reaching out to scoop Frisk’s chain from the floor beside her, and then started fucking her with new fury, pounding himself into her from the much closer distance and yanking back on her collar as he did, lifting her head and observing, with flat approval, the return of pain to her face.

And hurt it did, the head of Sans’s cock slamming against her cervix every time his hips ground into her (he was barely pulling out, from this distance, his short thrusts giving him more focus on the bruising force he desired); the hand not curling its claws into the flesh of her thigh, shifting purposefully over the still bleeding scratches there, was pulling the chain in his grip taut, forcing her back to bend uncomfortably as she was jostled back and forth.

Unfortunately, his changed position forced his dick against that before unknown _something_ inside her with every thrust now, stroking repeatedly with spiking waves of heat; all too soon, his brutal assault on her body was overpowered by the sensation of her stimulated nerves, making everything from his scraping claws to the bite of the collar at her throat feel so good that she could barely hold on to her sanity, helpless gasps and cries of passion escaping her despite wanting to hold them at bay.

This seemed to surprise Sans even more than it had earlier, his cruel vengeance fading into morbid curiosity; head tilting to the side inquisitively, he slowed his thrusts, using the force behind his position to instead deliver deliberate but jarringly hard slams of his hips against her, as though testing the extent of her pleasure.

He looked triumphant when she cried out passionately with each meeting of his pelvis to her body, her moans unwilling and punctuated with attempts to hold them back (not even clenching her teeth together would stop them) but loud and ardent despite anything she tried; he smirked domineeringly, his ego visibly swelling, and let up on how hard he was pulling against her collar’s chain a little, caressing the side of her thigh almost affectionately.

“ _look_ at you… moanin’ like a bitch in heat. you actually _like_ this, don’t you? you like gettin’ fuckin’ _wrecked_ … freaky as hell. i ain’t complainin’ though,” he crooned insultingly, rolling his hips upwards as he thrust, and tore a shuddering, humiliating, _wanton_ sound from her, shame and disgrace pooling more tears in her eyes, but she had little time to worry about the lewd sounds she was making.

The closeness of him behind her, and how steeply tilted her hips were, was allowing the coarse material of his shorts to rub against her skin every time he slammed his hips forward, dragging against her oversensitive and bared clit roughly.

The stimulation of him hitting all the right spots inside her, paired with his constant, if unintentional, grinding against her clit, was driving Frisk insane, forcing a haze of stupefied lust over her mind; she could barely think straight at this point, only able to chant to herself, over and over, that she couldn’t let him make her cum.

He would be unbearable if he managed it, and she wasn’t sure she would ever be able to look at herself in a mirror again if she let him.

She tried to pull away from the shifting fabric, trying to reduce her sensitivity, but the tightness of her collar and the vicelike grip of his hand on her leg kept her in place, her shifting barely noticed by the indulging monster as he continued bucking into her frenetically.

Unable to escape and rocking unwillingly back and forth with the force of Sans’s thrusts (he was groaning along with her, now, guttural explicatives leaking from him constantly), Frisk’s control over her reactions began to waver, the repeated stroking against her center making a tight fist of hot, coiling release build in her abdomen.

Her limbs were shaking weakly, in her state of arousal; the only reason her legs hadn’t collapsed was because Sans’s large hand was wrapped around her thigh, alternating between caressing along its length and digging its nails into her skin.

Caught up as he was in the movements of his hips and the tight wetness wrapped around his dick, it took Sans a moment to notice Frisk’s trembling, to hear the thrumming desperation in her moans and see the tiny flex of her own hips as she, unconsciously, thrust back into him, but notice he did, and smirked conceitedly to himself, recognizing the signs of her approaching climax and pulling at the chain in his grasp insistently to get her attention.

“you gettin’ close _already_ , skank? huh? you gonna cum for me?” he observed derisively when she had, blearily and reluctantly, turned her eyes to him, pausing in his rutting to grind his hips against hers roughly, and grinned heartily at the long, throaty cry of pleasure he got in return.

“hmm… sounds like it…” he murmured seductively, licking across his dripping fangs lingeringly, and hurriedly dropped the chain wound around his hand, sliding his now free fingers along the bared skin of her back and around her waist, dropping steadily lower.

Frisk, heat fogging her mind and covering her skin in sweat, felt the glide of his hand down her side, it’s direction obvious, with dread, squirming nervously; she didn’t want to orgasm, didn’t want to give him anything more than he was already taking…

But then his fingertips dragged down her abdomen, slid through her damp curls, and dipped into her already quivering folds, and she had her breath stolen from her, the intention behind their advance so deliriously unreal that her mind ground to an absolute halt.

No… no, she couldn’t let him…

And then the tips of two smooth, warm bones pressed against her clit and _rubbed_ , and she found her breath again, released in a loud groan of ecstasy that she would never live down, not if the look of ravenous victory on his face said anything.

Sans circled her swollen clit rapaciously, voracious and insatiable hunger glinting in his sparking magic iris; he swallowed up every one of her moans, devoured every shuddering clench of her muscles, and echoed her pleasure as he buried his cock in her over and over, grunts and groans reverberating in his chest.

He worked at the bundle of nerves at her apex feverishly, delighting in the contractions of her pussy and her progressively hoarser whimpers of grudging pleasure both, until Frisk, both physically and emotionally overwhelmed, collapsed her shoulders and face to the floor, giving in and whining and gasping in frenzied rapture at the feeling of her cresting release.

She had fought as hard as she could… she couldn’t be blamed for her body’s reactions to the experienced and avaricious monster determined to get her off.

It was just as she began to feel the end, when her vision began to cloud with profane bliss, though, that he halted the movement of his fingers against her, the height of her climax shivering to a standstill just as she was about to fall over the edge.

Shocked and incensed, Frisk pulled at her shackles and ground against his fingertips, desperate for the hovering haze of pleasure balanced at its peak, but Sans, cruel dominance in his smile, held her still and only moved his fingers to flick, frustratingly gently, against her, glorying in the control he had over her.

Snickering carnally, he arched a lofty brow when Frisk looked back at him reprimandingly, trembling visibly in the closeness and magnitude of her withheld climax.

“you wanna get off, bitch? then say my fuckin’ name. tell me who’s givin’ it to ya,” he demanded, pounding his hips against her roughly but stroking her clit very slowly, refusing her the orgasm he had built, but Frisk, shivering and arching and fraught as she was, clamped her lips shut, shaking her head rebelliously.

She _couldn’t_ … she couldn’t acknowledge it was him, or…

Sans didn’t care for her misgivings, though, and growled at her insolence, slowing the movement of his fingertips even further; the burning pressure of her now fading orgasm, almost painful in its intensity, made desperation bite at her mind, frantically wishing for the release he had kindled in her, but Frisk held her ground, pride and lofty denial at the forefront of her resistance.

Seeing that she wasn’t going to bend, Sans curled his bony lip into a sneer and dug his claws into her thigh, jerking her backwards onto his dick forcefully and pulling a surprised, pained yelp from her (having him lodged fully inside her was still painful despite her stimulation, her inner walls forced to stretch wide to accommodate him).

“ _say it_ … say it or i’ll fuck you all damn night. we’ll go until you pass out or i make ya _scream it_ ; either is fine with me,” he threatened, livid assurance in his gravelly tone, and Frisk, fear of the truthfulness of his claim clutching at her heart ( _no_ … no, he had said it would only be _once_ …), turned her face away shamefully, swallowing as much of her pride as she could manage.

It was just a name… she knew the difference between them, she _did_ …

“S-sans…” she supplied reluctantly, the moniker carried on a surprised moan that he forced from her when he rolled his hips against her, the thick length of his cock shifting inside her as he did, and Sans, a jolt of pleasure rocking him when he heard her whimper his name, smirked superiorly, immediately resuming the circulation of his fingertips against her throbbing center.

“that’s a good whore…” he praised mockingly, feeling the rebuilding of her ecstasy in the tightening of her muscles and the growing volume of her exhaled moans, and rubbed at her clit faster.

“now _cum_. cum on my cock… show me how much you like me fuckin’ you…” he ordered, victory and carnality reverberating in his husky tone even as he pistoned his pelvis against her harder, pounding the thickness of his cock against _that_ spot inside of her, and the combined vigor of his thrusts and the circling of his fingers and the sound of his voice, so similar to her almost lover’s (“you’ve never felt anything like it, babe… i can’t _wait_ to make love to you… i’ll make you feel so good…”), pushed her over the edge.

Her entire body spasmed, clenching repeatedly around Sans’s still stroking dick and seizing helplessly in the throes of her passion and quivering with a force so powerful that she wasn’t sure she was still in one piece, gratified cries of passion spilling from her without reproach.

Her fingers clenched, white-knuckled, in her bonds, saliva escaped her lips to drip wantonly down her chin, and, already blind in her mind boggling pleasure (how had he made her feel this _good_?), her eyes drifted shut, the height of her pleasure, seeming to drag on forever, finally beginning to settle.

Sans, only more turned on by the display, had no intention of letting her relax, though, and, with a voracious grin, sweat dripping from his bones in his exertion, continued the rubbing of his fingertips against her, shifting back on his knees to give himself more room behind her.

“ _fuck_ , that was sexy… you humans really know how ta let loose, huh? and fuck me if you didn’t get even _tighter_ …” he growled to the collapsed girl kneeling before him, lifting her sagging hips where she had begun to slump to the floor in exhaustion, and Frisk, awash in satiated pleasure from her explosive orgasm, tore her eyelids back open, the sustained motion of his fingertips and throbbing cock rocking her body with, somehow, even more heightened waves of pleasure.

She could barely move, from the force of her climax, and could hardly comprehend how he was still going; he was panting and groaning as loudly, if not even louder, than she had been before she came, constant sounds of sexual gratification spilling from his parted jaws.

She had always heard that men didn’t last as long as women… she had been expecting him to finish _long_ before she had been stimulated enough to.

Unless… unless monster males were different...

A chill of foreboding ran up her back at the thought, uneasy wonderments of exactly how long he could go for coaxing her mind into panic (what if it was _hours_? She couldn’t do that; it had only been minutes and she was already more tired than she had ever been, sore and aching and shaking from exhaustion), but lost touch with her vague imaginings when, impossibly, his hips started slamming against her faster, his energy after everything he had already done unthinkable to her.

The harsh, rough friction against her already shuddering, overly-sensitive walls was too much, ripping cries of pleasure from her as her legs shivered, feeble and unable to support her own weight, but Sans showed no such signs of weakness, easily holding her hips high with one hand as he pumped himself into her savagely, shuddering groans of satisfaction breaking from him when his pelvis smacked against her.

Frisk, almost overcome by the sensation of the skeleton’s powerful strokes inside her, choked on her breath when she felt tension growing in her abdomen again, her eyes wide in alarm and mortified shock; she didn’t even know she _could_ cum twice in a row (she had always stopped after the first time, too tired and stimulated to continue), much less _felt_ the incredibly hot and intensely quick rebuilding of her climax.

How could he be doing this to her?

She didn’t like it, she _didn’t_ , but the rubbing of his fingers and the thrusting of his cock into her was working magic on her that she couldn’t resist…

Each meeting of his bones to her skin, each clench of his claws into her thigh and each rub of his fingertips to her clit, was driving her mad, her back arching and her voice crying out waveringly without her consent, and Sans, noticing the rise in her volume and reactions both, grinned hazily, rising from his own fog of pleasure.

“hot _damn_ … you fuckin’ love this, dontcha, kitten? you love that i give it to ya _hard_ , give ya whatcha need… he couldn’t do this to you, and you _know_ it. he’d be too fuckin’ afraid of hurtin’ ya,” he grunted haggardly, superiority over his rival and pride in his efforts to pleasure her glowing in his flaming iris and in the softening of his former rage.

He pulled her hips back against him roughly, stretching her arms but arching into her from a new angle that shot stars across her eyes, and renewed the persistence of his circling fingers, leaning over her back to watch her contorting face.

“he couldn’t take control of you… couldn’t make ya lose your fuckin’ _mind_ with pleasure…” he groaned deeply, vindicated in his claim when his new position tore a long, enraptured moan from her throat, her hands fisting in their restraints and her back arching against him sharply, and Frisk, her eyes fluttering and abdomen clamping down tightly, gasped for air raggedly, her unfulfilled orgasm rising rapidly.

Sans, already watching her with rabid, lecherous fascination (each of her moans seemed to arouse him more, his cock twitching and throbbing more strongly with each affirmation of pleasure she let out), heard the catch in her voice and felt the tightening in her body, fervent exhilaration brightening his gaze even further.

“ ** _again_**? by the fuckin’ _stars_ , you’re hot for it... you know what to do, bitch. say it. tell me who’s fuckin’ ya so good you’re creamin’ yourself twice,” he insisted, his tongue dripping from between his teeth and his hips snapping up into her in his rapture, and, shivering and eager and teetering on the edge, Frisk vacillated, biting at her lip and trying her hardest to stay in control.

She had let him do this to her once already, once that she wasn’t sure she could forgive herself for, but… it was more than likely that his threat was still in effect.

She couldn’t do this all night; she already felt like every one of her muscles was torn, every one of her bones broken, and all her emotions but her determined soul betrayed by biological reactions… she was a mess, a puddle that used to be human, and it was all his fault.

Besides… she couldn’t deny that it had felt good…

Scowling, Frisk shifted her eyes to the side, shame burning up her neck to decorate her cheeks again, already acknowledging her defeat.

It was for the sake of her abused, violated body that she was giving in, and for no other reason.

Right.

“Sans…” she whimpered desolately, doing everything she could to keep her hips from grinding back into his touch to achieve what he was offering even quicker, but Sans, snickering cruelly, slowed his hand and denied her again with a dark glint of hungry control in his sockets.

“ _louder_ , whore… _beg_ for it… i want every monster in the fuckin’ underground to hear you. tell them _all_ who ya belong to!” he snarled, possessiveness and conquest shaking vividly in his gruff voice, and Frisk, reticence and indignity burning her cheeks, nearly sobbed in her cresting pleasure, gasping for air and quivering helplessly on her knees.

She shouldn’t do it, shouldn’t give him more than she was already being forced to, even under the threat of enduring this all night, but…

Her mind was nearly overcome with the need to orgasm, more desperate for it than she had ever been before.

She wasn’t declaring herself to him.

She was just stroking his ego.

One more time… just one more, and that would be it.

“Please, Sans, _please_ … let me _cum_ …” she plead noisily, whining and writhing against his hand and his thick cock and his hard, hot bones, her disgrace secondhand to her desire for her climax, and Sans, panting and lascivious and shameless, smirked widely, burying himself in the already clenching pussy of the girl he held beneath him and stroking his fingers over her soft folds.

“since you asked so nicely, pet…” he crooned, fucking her mercilessly as he pushed her over the edge of her second orgasm, and this time, Frisk was sure she lost consciousness, the mind-blowing pleasure of her release simply too much for her overpowered mind to bear.

All she could see was white, her ears full of a gentle, pulsing static and her body encapsulated by titillating, reverberant ecstasy; she felt like she was floating, for the first time in weeks feeling no pain or fear or anger.

The illusions shattered all too soon, fading into a faraway haze of fleeting pleasure, interrupted by a choked inhalation from Sans; her obscured vision revealed to just be the backs of her eyelids, having drifted shut again in her unwinding orgasm, Frisk reopened her eyes and looked over her shoulder at the shuddering skeleton monster behind her, his sockets and teeth clenched and his brows beetled.

Had… had he finished?

It appeared so because, after a long moment spent extremely still within her, his only movements the shuddering of his shoulders and the rise and fall of his rib cage, partially bared by the bunched material of his sweater (his shorts were somehow still clinging to his hipbones, caught on the curve of his iliac crests and unzipped just enough to allow the removal of his cock from their confines), he pulled himself from her body, a groan of utter satisfaction shaking one of his panting breaths.

Confusion filled her in the wake of his seeming finishing, though, the quivering and occasionally twitching skeleton not moving from behind her, both hands settled on her posterior for balance; it had been rather anti-climactic on his part, though she could reason that she may have missed most of his end while lost in the throes of her second climax.

She also felt… just empty, in her sore and swollen core… wasn’t he supposed to, you know, cum?

Not that she wanted him to, she had just thought… that he would.

Maybe monsters were different like that too… but no, she distinctly remembered her Sans trying to explain the blue stains on his bed sheets to her when she was young and had no idea what had placed them there…

Lost in her contemplation, Frisk didn’t immediately realize that her wrists had been freed, a waved skeletal hand over her still arched body dismissing the magical restraints, but she _did_ notice when that same hand reached down to grasp her upper arm, pulling at it firmly.

With an undignified ‘oof’ and a great deal of confusion, Frisk flopped onto her side before collapsing onto her back, her legs splayed in their weakened state and her head swimming at the sudden change in position, but startled abruptly when the slightly more composed monster before her crawled between her thighs, running his hands up their backs to grasp at her rolled up leggings.

Shaking her flats off onto the floor at her sides dismissively, Sans dragged the torn, splinter infested material down her legs purposefully, smoothing the palms of his hands down the calf of each leg as he did (his sockets lingered on her newly revealed skin, his bones stroking the dips in her muscles and making shivers run along her skin), before removing them completely.

Triumphant, he dropped the bunched material away from himself, letting it fall to the ground at her side, before cupping his hands behind her knees and scooting himself back between her legs, fitting the flats of his femurs securely beneath her spread thighs.

Frisk had been blithely confused by what he was doing as he removed her tights, still a little absent-minded from the intensity of her orgasm, but was forcefully removed from her wandering thoughts by her first direct sight of her captor’s cock, still jutting proudly from his parted zipper despite her mind’s insistence that he should be _done_.

His magic gave the thick, bright red, visibly twitching appendage a slight glow, casting illumination on the wrinkled material of her knitted dress (which clung to her abdomen, thankfully unmoved by his manhandling of her) and the sticky wetness between her parted legs, and Frisk, dread sinking into her stomach, darted her eyes away from Sans’s dick and up to his face, silent questions in her wide, anxious eyes.

Sans laughed darkly at her expression, sweat dripping down his skull and vertebrae, before moving one of his hands from behind her knee to gather her hands together at the wrists, pulling them over her head and pushing them back down to the ground insistently; his movement lowered the rest of his body over hers, spreading her legs around his hips, pushing his hot, turgid cock against her stomach, and placing his face very close to hers (his heavy breaths rustled her messy, sweat soaked, ruffled hair, his one glowing iris locked with her tremulous gaze).

“you looked so disappointed, sugar… didja think we were done? heh… not by a longshot,” he informed her drily, bending closer to her to bury his face into her tangled locks (she felt him inhale against her neck, sending a shudder up her pinioned body), and ground against Frisk lewdly, his dick dragging against her abdomen and leaving a trail of wetness in its wake, before shifting his knees backwards, allowing his next thrust to push his cock back into her still dripping core, sheathing himself in her fully.

He huffed a chuckle against her hair when he heard her sharp intake of breath at his sudden, painful intrusion (her multiple orgasms and his removal from her body had tightened her walls, and was thus unprepared for his reinsertion, his girth enough to make the stretch sting), clenching his hand around her captured wrists and hooking her knee into the curve of his elbow, pushing it to the side to give his hips room to settle against hers.

“i haven’t gotten to see your face when ya cum yet… i wanna see the look in your eyes when i getcha off. i wanna watch ya give in to me,” Sans grunted into her neck, sweat already rebuilding on the dome of his cracked skull, then pulled his head back and met her hooded gaze with one of his own, inches between their faces.

“keep your hands there; i don’t feel like tyin’ ya down again, but i can if i hafta,” he warned, squeezing his fingers around her wrists again, then released them and pushed himself up so he was again kneeling between her legs, looking down on Frisk’s flustered, stretched out body with an inscrutable, secretive grin curving his mouth upwards.

“i’ve been waitin’ a long fuckin’ time for this…” Sans rasped gutturally, flicking his gaze up to meet hers passingly, then dug his free hand into the rumpled material of her dress, his breath heavy, before dragging the knitted fabric up Frisk’s torso, bunching it up near her throat so that the narrows of her waist, her slightly protruding ribs, and her bra covered breasts were bared to his view.

His brow furrowed when he saw the plain, a little off color white bra, looking frustrated, and released the dress in his grasp to pool on her upper chest; grumbling beneath his breath, he ran the tip of his index finger between her breasts, beneath the fabric of the restraint, and, much to Frisk’s chagrined disbelief, sliced through it with his claw, shredding the material.

Now she didn’t have any underwear at _all_ , damnit…

The tightness of the now split bra snapped it to the sides audibly, instantly baring her breasts to her tormentor’s view, and if she could tell anything from his intake of breath and the heightened throbbing of his cock inside her (she had looked away the moment she realized what he was doing with her bra, humiliated and mortified), he liked what he saw.

“hot _damn_ …” she heard him purr beneath his breath, his gaze heated and heavy on her skin (her flush grew brighter when she felt her nipples tighten under the weight of his eye and the cold of the shack both); uncomfortable, Frisk tried to move her hands from over her head to cover herself, knowing how ridiculous it was to be embarrassed when he had his dick buried in her at this very moment but abashed nonetheless.

This was all she had left to hide, now… he had seen, taken everything else, everything she had meant to save…

Sans took exception to the lowering of her hands though, immediately distracted from staring at her breasts by their movement, and growled at her, setting his extended hand on her throat and pressing down discouragingly, enough to be a warning.

“i toldja to keep ‘em over your fuckin’ head… don’t make me tell ya twice,” he snapped, clenching his fingers so that his claws dug lightly against her skin, and Frisk, squeezing her eyes shut in mortification, slowly obeyed, stretching her arms back over her head and against the floor.

Sans, snorting dismissively, gave her throat one last squeeze before releasing her, trailing his hand down her body slowly; he dragged his index finger through the valley between her breasts, around her belly button, over the curve of one of her hipbones, and up the inside of her thigh, his enraptured sockets following the path his finger took.

“ _stars_ , i love your fuckin’ body...” he breathed out hungrily, wrapping his wandering fingers around the back of her knee and pushing her leg to the side, spreading her thighs further around his hips; slowly, but firmly, he started thrusting himself into Frisk’s sore entrance again, his gaze flicking from her newly bared skin to length of his scarlet cock pulling in and out of her.

Frisk, tears of shame and renewed pain both gathering in her eyes, turned her head away and laid her cheek against the floor, promising herself that she wouldn’t feel anything this time, that she wouldn’t give him what he wanted from her again, but, despite his threats and demands and his forceful undressing of her, something about this time felt… different.

The way he was touching her, handling her, _looking_ at her… it felt too real, too passionate.

She wouldn’t say that she preferred his roughness, but she really didn’t like how he was making her feel.

Sans, halting for a moment, shifted his knees closer to her, centering his weight, before renewing the slow pumping of his cock into her, breathing out a haggard, clearly pleasured gasp; he propped Frisk’s legs around his rolling hips, squeezing her tighter around him as he did (she held back a stimulated inhalation, a twinge of pleasure rushing through her), to trace his claws down the sides of her thighs lingeringly.

“i own _all_ of this, from your smart ass mouth to your wet little pussy…” he mused to himself avidly, his sockets sweeping over the expanse of her skin, sweat standing out against her trembling stomach and spread thighs, and grinned widely, licking over his sharp teeth while watching her breasts sway in time with his thrusts.

His hands smoothed over the fullness of her ass, squeezing lasciviously and using his new grip to momentarily deepen his thrusts (Frisk let out a shaky, reluctant moan as he pressed fully against _that_ spot, twitching fitfully against the ground and his femurs both), pressing his thumbs into her flesh and smirking lustfully.

“so soft… so fuckin’ _sexy_ … and all _mine_ …” Sans murmured huskily, satisfaction and victory in his salacious tone as he clutched at her posterior, then released her ass and ran his palms over the curves of her hips, tracing the gentle slope of her hipbones with the tips of his fingers.

His flaring iris glowed passionately in his skull, watching the path his hands took over her skin as he trailed his clawed fingers up the lines of her soft stomach muscles, dragging them slowly up her quivering abdomen and over her ribs to cup the heaviness of her breasts in his palms.

“these are mine…” he rumbled possessively, smirking to himself and squeezing his phalanges around the soft flesh as he rocked his hips against hers, sliding in and out of her still convulsing core (she shivered with each drag of his cock against her far too sensitive walls, both pain and pleasure washing over her).

Frisk arched almost off the floor when Sans suddenly rubbed his thumbs over her peaked nipples, heat shooting straight between her spread legs (she clenched her eyes shut and bit her lip hurriedly, refusing to succumb to even more pleasure at his hands); shuffling his legs even further forwards, he leaned over her reclined body, lowered his mouth to her chest, and laved his tongue along the side of one of her breasts, his lids lowered and his pelvis pressing even harder against her, his cock sinking further into her core and dragging a reluctant moan from her.

Grinning snarkily and watching her from the corner of his socket, Sans dragged his tongue over the swell of her breast to flick over her nipple, pinching the other between a thumb and forefinger; a satisfied growl rumbled through his ribcage when she arched up into his touch again instinctively, her legs clenching around his hips and a cry of rampant want pushing against her clenched lips.

One bony brow rising in mocking acknowledgement, he continued the ministrations of his fingers and tongue, rolling one nipple and licking messily at the other, and seemed to relish the way she squirmed beneath his body, watching her teeth dig into her lower lip and her eyelids flutter intermittently; she could feel him getting more excited the longer that he toyed with her breasts, his cock pounding into her faster and harder and his breaths, hot and rapid, only getting deeper.

Finally, after one particularly rough swipe of his tongue against her beaded nipple, Frisk couldn’t hold back anymore, sweat sticking her bangs to her forehead and her nails biting into her shaking palms, and let out a ragged, wanton cry of pleasure, louder than she was proud of and more passionate that she had ever wanted him to hear; Sans, pausing with his tongue hanging from his teeth, shuddered in place when he heard it, his cock throbbing desirously inside her.

He raised his gaze to meet hers, nothing but hot, heavy lust in his flaming iris, his jaw slack and his breath heavy, then grinned, one corner of his smile arching upwards savagely.

“the things ya fuckin’ do to me…” he muttered, shaking his head ruefully and chuckling mordantly, before releasing her left breast to reach down and dig his fingers into her hip, renewing his momentary lull of motion fiercely and urgently, stroking the thickness of his cock into her core roughly.

Frisk, still shaken by the unexpected gratification of his experimenting and now very much accommodated to his size, almost sobbed when she felt the almost inevitable pull of pleasure from the drag of him against her walls, exhausted and emotionally spent.

He was overwhelming her, forcing her to feel so much that she wasn’t ready to feel… she just wished he would finish and leave her alone.

She didn’t want to cum again, didn’t want to see his satisfaction over the fact that he could make her orgasm, didn’t want to have to acknowledge that he could please her in ways that her Sans had never gotten the chance to.

But already, even without him rubbing at her clit, she could feel the latent buildup of another climax, setting her skin on fire and pulling at her stretched inner walls, and swallowed against the growing moans in her throat, resisting as much as she could.

He would have to drag it out of her.

Outside of her stubborn resistance, Sans, grunting in time with the meeting of his pelvis to hers, slicked his slithering tongue between her breasts, leaving a glistening trail along her sweat-beaded skin and immediately breaking her from her collusions; sockets hooded heavily and sloppy grin still in place, he raised his other hand up from her breast to follow the slight protrusion of her sternum, dragging a claw along her soft, damp flesh to rest at the hollow of her throat.

“ _this_ is mine…” he claimed quietly, tracing the shape of a heart between her collarbones; the edge of his smile drooped slowly, becoming, for the first time since his rage had begun, softer and sincerer, and, lifting his hand an inch or so above her skin, kindled a thin sheen of red magic around his clawed fingers.

Frisk immediately felt the pull of her soul in her chest, the center of her being responding immediately to the strong beckoning of his magic (she, admittedly, panicked, wanting to move away but held immobile by the grasp of his power); a soft red glow presented in the center of her chest, the thrum of her own, much weaker magic answering to his.

A look of intense greed took over his face then, his extended hand twitching minutely, but he didn’t raise it, didn’t finish manifesting her soul (what was he doing? He couldn’t want to confront her in the middle of having sex with her, could he?), and instead spent a short moment just staring at its radiance through her skin, his magical iris sparking occasionally, before sighing heavily, replacing his hand against her collarbones.

“one day…” he muttered beneath his breath enigmatically, smirking softly at the dormant glow in the center of her upper chest (Frisk furrowed her eyebrows, confusion breaking in her mind; what was he talking about?), then dismissed the magic gathered at his fingertips, sliding his hand away and leaning his arm against the ground at her side to settle the weight of his lower body against her, drawing irrevocable attention to the measurable closeness between their hips.

Sans, clearly still feeling the dregs of whatever he had just experienced (he looked drunk, a slight flush of red crossing his cheekbones), ran the tip of a finger along the bruised line of her jaw, his breath hitching slightly as he ground his hips against hers; grunting quietly and plainly starting to lose control, he licked at the saliva dripping from his teeth, dragging his gaze up from her throat to meet her drooping, hazy eyes.

“all of you, _every_ part of you, is _mine_ … and i _never_ give up what’s mine,” he panted, pushing his forehead against hers and locking gazes meaningfully (what the…?), then tilted her chin to the side with an insistent thumb, breathing out haggardly against her partially opened lips… and pressed his mouth to hers, his lip line narrowing to ply at her soft lips insistently.

The action was so surprising, so shocking and unexpected, that Frisk gasped into the bones pushing against her mouth, never having even entertained the idea that she would be doing this with him.

Having sex with him was bad enough, a robbery of innocence and consent and personal worth forced on her, but kissing him?

It shouldn’t mean anything to her, especially in lieu of the fact that he was _raping her_ … but the movement of his hard, insistent lips against hers threw a blush so dark across her cheeks that she felt faint, made stars explode through her mind and her heart throb without her permission.

She had shared thousands of kisses with her Sans, and in her overpowered, overstimulated, muddled mind… this was one and the same, another mind melting, meaningful, loving kiss shared with her almost lover.

She had to physically resist reaching out to hold the back of his skull, her stomach rolling uneasily and her soul rejoicing all at once.

Sans, unknowing of his prisoner’s turmoil but feeling the rush of her breath against his teeth, smirked to himself and parted his jaw, using the opportunity to slick his smooth, dexterous tongue past her lips; he stroked the tip along her own tongue, thrusting the tapering length into her mouth in an emulation of his still gyrating hips.

The insertion of his tongue into her mouth only jumbled Frisk’s thoughts more, the spark of his magic and the consistency of his saliva almost identical to her Sans’s (she could taste herself on his breath still, along with cigarette smoke and a bitter sweetness she could only identify as mustard); it was all she could do to keep from moving her tongue against his, to keep from sucking at it like she knew he liked.

…like _her_ Sans liked, damnit.

Sans didn’t seem to expect her to respond, though, laving the thickness of his tongue over the inside of her mouth languidly as he stroked her neck and clutched at her hip tightly, the motion of his hips spiking even more; he was only getting more and more turned on, his haggard breath rushing in and out of his nasal cavity and his own limbs starting to tremble.

He spent a few more moments practically fucking her mouth with his tongue, every stroke of the magical appendage breaking her restraint more and more (she wondered, for a very short time, what he would react like if she bit him, then decided she didn’t want to find out), before, with a shuddering groan, he pulled back, withdrawing his tongue and smirking, satisfied, at the string of drool that stretched between their mouths.

“you taste like nothin’ else in existence… _fuck_ , i want the taste of you on my tongue all damn day and night,” he gasped raggedly, leaning forward to press his mouth to hers again, running his fingers around the back of her head to hold lips her against his; his hips were slamming against hers desperately now, rutting his dick into her core as deep as it would go.

Frisk could barely think straight, the force of his thick cock stimulating her inner walls and the press of his mouth against hers and the rebuilding of her orgasm, forgotten in her blind confusion but returning to the forefront of her attention insistently, all converging to blind her to anything but the presence of the monster fucking her into the floorboards she lay on, her legs spread wide around his thrusting hips and her palms itching to bury themselves in the fur of his coat.

Finally pulling back from her lips, Sans immediately ducked his head into her hair, pulling at the handful he held to pull it away from her neck; the moment he had, he stroked the length of his tongue under her collar and up her throat, tasting her sweat almost rabidly and bucking against her needily.

“you feel so… fuckin’ _good_ , sweetheart… love… fuckin’ you…” he panted, finally releasing his death grip on her waist to force his hand between their bodies; he quickly found her clit with his fingertips again, stroking along her sweat-streaked, arousal soaked skin, and grinned widely when she arched against him, the sensation spiking her pleasure even further.

Frisk, impossibly even hotter than both times before, writhed beneath the skeleton monster, no longer in control of her body; her want spilled from her saliva covered lips without restraint, her legs rose to wrap around his pounding hips, and her back bowed, pressing her chest closer to his, his exposed ribs rubbing tantalizingly over her nipples.

Sans, hazily aware of the girl’s reactions, let out a deep, rumbling moan, trying to press even closer to her in his eagerness.

“you’re so perfect… need to… _have_ to… _fuck_!” he groaned haggardly, his hips erratic in their movements and his breath hot and ragged against the dribbles of saliva on her neck, and Frisk, head spinning in the heat and pleasure washing over her, forgot her orders and inner resistance and clutched at his shoulders desperately, trying to find a handhold as the rubbing of his fingertips over her clit again coiled lava hot release in her abdomen, hovering enticingly close to the edge.

He seemed to feel it too, excitement layering his breath as he lapped even more fervently at her throat, working his fingers on her faster.

“ _stars_ yes… cum with me… milk me fuckin’ _dry_ …” he growled plaintively against her skin, his teeth scraping at her throat as he panted and bucked his pelvis into her urgently; he seemed to have forgotten his insistence on her saying his name before she got to cum, but Frisk didn’t notice the lapse in his attention.

She was too close, too stimulated, to care about much more than reaching her orgasm.  

With his grating, desperate voice in her ear, hot and familiar and so wanting, paired the intensity of his body working hers into orgasm, it took very little effort from him before her body locked down on his again, her vision whiting out with pleasure and her voice building in her ecstasy; above her, Sans let out a choked breath, her tightness around him mind-shatteringly gratifying, and pistoned his cock into her once, twice, three more times before he came too, shuddering and gasping and clutching at her hip as he spilled himself into her.

“holy _fuck_ … frisk…” he whispered hoarsely as he spent himself, her powerful climax clutching at him spasmodically (she was so swept out to sea by her chemical high that she almost didn’t hear him, though her mind instantly dismissed that he had said her name; how could he have? She had never told him what it was), and, his tongue drooping from his mouth as he gasped for air, he lowered the hand clutching at her hair to her arm, dragging the material of her dress away from the delicate curve of her neck and shoulder.

With a tired but determined gleam in his eye, Sans lowered his mouth to her now bare shoulder, dragged his dripping tongue over her sweat beaded clavicle, and growled, one last time, “ _mine_ ” before sinking his teeth into her with a soft snarl rumbling in his chest, breaking her skin and voraciously licking up the blood that leaked from her new wound.

Still at the zenith of her orgasm, Frisk barely noticed the pain, the too warm feeling of Sans’s magic pumping into her already overfull core sending shudders of climactic aftershocks through her (she worried, for a moment, about how much there was, before remembering his explanation of how monster sex worked), and, chagrined exhaustion overcoming her, collapsed her limbs to the floor, breathing hard and hoping, against all hope, that he was finally done.

Could people die from having too much (and… too good) sex?

She felt like she might.

Sans, trembling almost as much as the overwhelmed girl below him, pulled away from her shoulder slowly, admiring the imprint of his teeth in her flesh with hooded eyelids, before lifting his hips and withdrawing his cock from her (they both groaned, shivering with stimulation).

He knelt over Frisk for a long moment, his breath slowly returning to normal, before, with a shuddering exhalation, he pushed himself back up to his knees, the magic in his socket fading into nothing and dissipating his magically summoned dick.

An awkward silence fell as he righted his clothes, doing up his pants and pulling his sweater back into place; Frisk, finally recovered from her mind shattering climax, turned away from him on the floor, the chain attached to her collar rattling along the wooden boards.

She was intensely aware of her aching muscles, her torn skin and the deluge of wetness that was leaking, in a slow trickle, from between her legs; she tried to pull her dress down over her body, humiliating degradation demanding she hide herself as well as she could from the monster kneeling behind her, but when she tried, she almost screamed in pain, the bruising and strain she had suffered too great to allow her to move far enough to even cover her breasts.

The unfairness and extremity of the situation washed over her at once, her defilement and disgrace overwhelming, and the tears that had bided their time during her violation burst free, dripping down her face to mix with her blood and his lingering saliva.

A ragged, gasping sob left her lips, and Frisk, more broken than she could ever remember being, curled in on herself as much as she could, determination draining from her like water through her fingers.

She couldn’t move to reach her only shield against the cold, her pile of blankets, and neither could she dress herself; she would most likely freeze to death tonight.

She didn’t care, though.

It would be better than ever feeling like this again.

Sans had been silent for so long that Frisk had assumed he had gone, had left her to lie naked in the vile mess he had made, uncaring as always, but he hadn’t moved from where he knelt, the lights that normally lit his sockets absent as he listened to her soul rending cries of despair, each new sob making him flinch.

Shame weighed down his shoulders, lowering his empty gaze to his hands, before he gulped heavily, wiped his jacket sleeve across his mouth (cleaning away the last remaining traces of her blood as he did), and shifted his feet under himself to stand.

Frisk, surprised by his motion, froze in place, ears strained to listen to him moving; she feared the worst, that he still wasn’t satisfied, and began to tremble earnestly, shrinking in on herself fearfully.

No… no, _please_ …

She felt his hands settle on her with dread, fresh tears of panicked trepidation pooling in her red eyes, but stilled, shocked, when he started pulling her dress back into place, his hands as gentle as he could make them.

He finished righting her clothes quickly, avoiding touching her skin pointedly, and then slid one hand below her knees, the other cupping her upper back, lifting her into his arms.

Her panic only grew as he lifted her, not knowing what he was doing (where was he taking her? Was he going to hurt her more? She couldn’t handle _more…_ hadn’t he broken her enough?), but he only walked three steps, bringing him level with the mound of dirty but warm blankets in the corner of the shack.

He set her down just as lightly as he had lifted her, plucking at one of the covers to drag it over her reclining body, before backing away, looking her over with lowered brows, and then turning on his heel, disappearing in a wisp of red vapor.

Even though she had seen him, and her Sans, do that quite often, she still jumped nervously, as surprised by his abrupt departure as she was by him helping her.

She was just as surprised when he reappeared a few minutes later, a large, thick red blanket thrown over one arm and a black, steaming bowl in the opposing hand.

He avoided Frisk’s questioning eyes, throwing the duvet over the top of the ones she was nestled in (warmth washed over her instantaneously, the thick, mostly clean comforter enveloping her entirely), then dropped heavily to the ground at her side, folding his legs and cupping what was now revealed to be a bowl of spaghetti in his hands.

“do ya want me to feed you, or can you do it?” he muttered gruffly, looking down at the glistening noodles instead of at her, and Frisk, all propriety gone (she could smell the pasta wafting from the bowl, her mouth watering and her stomach grumbling loudly), reached for the bowl mutely, eyes wide and hands shaking.

She wasn’t sure that she should trust him, especially after what he had done to her (she could smell sex on the air in the shack over the delicious scent of the spaghetti, their mixed fluids glistening in a puddle on the ground in the middle of the room), but she was starving and hurt and, admittedly, he had yet to try to poison her.

Sans, glancing up quickly when he saw the movements of her grasping hands, immediately relinquished the bowl, surrendering it to her and then dropping his now empty hands into his lap, his gaze, once again lit with pinpricks of red light, following after them.

Uncaring of manners or decorum, Frisk wolfed down the first half of the spaghetti within minutes, doing her best to keep from groaning in ecstasy (it was absolutely delicious, a perfect blend of spices and cooking; was the Papyrus in this world a master chef?).

Sans didn’t move while she ate, glaring emptily at his hands and barely breathing.

Finally, as Frisk began to slow her bites, her wounds already healing from the flow of energy the food provided her, he stirred, shifting his jaw with an audible crack, then looked up at her, surveying the healing of her injuries passingly.

“i’m goin’ to move you tomorrow night. i have another place, where you’ll be safer,” he announced, finality in his tone but not in his posture (his shoulders were sunk in on themselves, his spine bent lower than she had ever seen it), and Frisk, finishing chewing the bite she had just taken, stared back at him, frowning and swallowing.

“Please let me go. Let me break the barrier; it’s what I’m here for,” she contended softly, echoing the argument she had presented him almost every day she saw him, and, as usual, Sans’s expression hardened, his teeth clenching.

“no. _never_. you’re stayin’ with me,” he insisted, scowling severely and fisting his hands in his lap; that was usually the end of the conversation, the skeleton monster typically quick to move on to other subjects, but Frisk spoke quickly to divert him, bravery rearing in her chest (maybe she wasn’t so broken after all…)

“I can _save_ all of you. You won’t have to be trapped here anymore,” she reasoned, hopeful of convincing him to see things her way, but was destined to be disappointed, the stern stubbornness on the monster’s face changing into temperamental anger.

“can ya? can ya save us? you couldn’t even save _yourself_ , keep me from _raping_ you, and _i_ actually care about your existence,” he snarled, curling his fingers into the material of his shorts, and Frisk flinched, the candidacy with which he spoke about what he had done to her sending a shock through her still sore body (she clutched at the bowl in her hands nervously, the rise in his voice intimidating her).

He wasn’t done though, his fisted hands shaking against his femurs; he bared his fangs menacingly, glaring over at her.

“ _they_ don’t give a shit about you. they’ll kill ya on sight. no, i’m gonna keep ya; another human will come. _you’re_ **_mine_** ,” he snapped, raw possessiveness ringing in his tone (his gaze flicked to her left shoulder, the still unhealed bite mark peeking around the material of her dress), and Frisk, irritation finally overcoming her reason, glared back at him, slamming the bowl in her grasp against her leg angrily.

“I… I’ll fight. I’ll run. I won’t be your fuck toy,” she threatened, meeting his mad dog stare straight on, and Sans, a flicker of red sparking in his gaze, narrowed his sockets, curled his lip line scornfully, and pushed himself up from the ground to tower over her (Frisk’s heart sank in her chest, drawing away from him instinctively).

“didn’tcha hear me?” he muttered darkly, leaning over her and casting a deep, dark shadow over her reclining body; despite her flinching, he reached out a large hand to grasp her chin, raising her face to meet his gaze.

“you couldn’t save yourself from me tonight… couldn’t keep me from fuckin’ you… what makes ya think that’s gonna change?” he warned, firm surety in his sinister voice, and pressed his thumb to her now healed lower lip, almost tenderly, before releasing her chin and stepping back, his hands inserting themselves into his pockets.

“eat all of that. you’ll need your strength tomorrow,” he instructed, nodding to the bowl in Frisk’s hands with his glare still narrowing his sockets, then disappeared again, this time for good.

Angrily, Frisk flipped off the spot where he had stood, furious tears pushing at her gaze, but she held them back stubbornly, considering not finishing the food (because he said to) but acknowledging the need to heal her body after her rough treatment.

Once she was done, the heavy weight of exhaustion crept over her, drooping her eyelids and weighing down her limbs; she needed to make a plan, one that had a much higher chance of working now that he planned to move her to a new place, but wouldn’t be able to do much in her state.

She would sleep for a few hours, and then plot her escape.

Settled, at least for the moment, Frisk burrowed into the pile of blankets she had been placed on, grasping at the new blanket without realizing it; she itched idly at the bite mark on her shoulder (it had, for some reason, not healed as she ate), drifting quickly into a restless sleep full of nightmare blurs of her experience that evening.

Outside of the girl’s slumber, the fluttering lantern finally burned out, shining its last rays of light on the loose chain lying against the floorboards and the swaying, unlocked cage door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so. I have some questions for all of you. We can all see this story has more than pronz going on for it, however, I would like to see where the interest is. Let me know if you guys want more! I have a very long storyline planned for it if you do ^_^ also, I'd like to know what you think about my chapter lengths. I know they can be very long, and take a long time to update. If I made the chapters shorter, I could update more often :) What do you think?
> 
> Also... how did the porn turn out? :D to everyone's liking? Drop me a line, let me know! And as always, thank you so much for coming back and reading!
> 
> Fell's Fuck Counter: 148


	6. The Road to Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had turned to meet the teary, panicked eyes of the human, looking down on her shuddering, flinching form with a growing smirk of predatory superiority (she had looked so weak and small, bowing away from him in her fear… he had been so satisfied by that, then).
> 
> When he had held out his hand to her, though, inviting her to shake it with menacing glee (if she had been stupid enough to try, he’d have had her in a trice, maybe even broken her arm for good measure), his vision had started to waver again, blurring and fading at the edges, accentuated with the jarring sound of white noise, so loud it had almost blanked out the storm.
> 
> Sans had seen, in the shaking vision, a double of his arm, extended to the same, much younger version of her that he had seen earlier memory, in much the same way he currently was, but encased in faded, stained blue fabric and hiding, in the palm of its hand, a small whoopee cushion (he had snorted, within; the old whoopee cushion in the hand trick? That got old really fast).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, folks, what we have here is chapter six, the first of two parts of Fell Sans's flashback chapters ^_^ I do apologize for splitting them, as I am wont to do, but I can guarantee that the next part will be posted a week from now, so you won't have long to wait <3
> 
> Warnings for the chapter: there's a lot of bad language, as Fell has a filthy mouth and mind, some violence (mostly in reference), a lot of egregious damage to some trees, and some salacious thoughts.
> 
> No one under 18 please. It's just not appropriate, guys.
> 
> Lots of story stuff from now on :D I hope you guys enjoy.
> 
> Also, I wrote a little side story for this, called Dearly Beloved. There's a link at the bottom of this chapter, but the story is posted on my profile as well.
> 
> Some art for your face-  
> http://kurohaai.tumblr.com/image/144337670620  
> http://kurohaai.tumblr.com/image/143849824520  
> http://kurohaai.tumblr.com/image/143295915815  
> http://kurohaai.tumblr.com/image/142583297315  
> http://solaceblues.tumblr.com/image/144595682049  
> http://kenyaketchup.tumblr.com/post/144083072627
> 
> Visit my Tumblr, for updates, fanart, summaries of future fanfics, and other shenanigans!  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thebananafrappe

* * *

There was a rule, among those privileged few that had enough control over their magic to have the ability to teleport.

Never, ever, _ever_ transport yourself while your mind is on anything but going from one place to another.

There is more than just empty space in the blackness that clings to the shadowy places of the world, to the deepest reaches of the universe and the dark, darker, yet darker corners of our minds… there is everything and nothing, delirium and sense, fear and love and everything in between forced into forms of matter than cannot be comprehended.

One could lose themselves in the depths of the abyss, more easily than an eye can blink.

So when Sans tore himself free of the space between, the Void mists clinging to his bones and pulling at his sanity (it had nearly kept him, that time, aware of his distraction), he stumbled straight into a tree, clumsy in his rush to escape not only the grasp of the ether, but also the accusation in Frisk’s eyes that he had run from in the first place, the righteous hatred in her denial and the hot, hard desire still burning in his bones.

He wasn’t prepared to face her or her justified fury, still stewing in his own wrath and jealousy and _agony_.

He couldn’t afford to fight with her now, not in his state.

Not when he had already hurt her, _betrayed_ her, enough.

Not when he could still smell the musk of their shared sex on his bones.

Not when he still wanted _more_.

The sheer amount of emotions warring for his attention, envy and lust and sick satisfaction and self-loathing and star forsaken _pain_ (why the _fuck_ did it hurt so much…he felt like his soul was being ripped in half), was driving him insane, bleeding an ache of intense, piercing ire into his skull and lowering his mildly panicked demeanor into a petulant scowl.

This was all _her_ fault.

Sans would never have ended up here, clutching at the bark of a cold, hard tree in the middle of the night and stinking of sin and perfidy and insatiable hunger, if not for her… he would never have lowered himself to consorting with a human, to wanting nothing more than to tie himself to one for the rest of his life, if _she_ had never fallen, had never forced herself into his life and stolen away any option he had in the matter.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t resisted… hadn’t tried to fight it…

But he hadn’t had a choice, not from the instant he had looked in Frisk’s eyes.

It was difficult to believe it had been such a short time, since he had been ensnared in her and her life and the entirety of her being… everything in his world had changed in the six weeks since she had fallen, and he was still trying to discern if that was a good or a bad thing.

On the one hand, he had found his soulmate, his partner, his match in (potential) love, the female that would give him completion and family and meaning and maybe, one day, children; she was everything he had never known he had wanted, warmth and passion and spirit incarnate.

On the other hand, he was losing his mind with conflicting emotions, with his divided awareness and preoccupied attentions; he was almost never sure what to do with himself anymore, distracted and tired and confused by the mystery behind her very existence.

The panic of almost losing himself to the Void already forgotten (it wasn’t the first or last time it would happen), Sans, clenching his claws into the bark beneath his palms, laid his forehead against the tree he had fallen into, breathing out a growl and gritting his jaw against the mounting pain pounding against the back of his sternum.

If he had known… if he had had any idea of what lay in store for him when he had found her… he wasn’t sure what he would have done.

It was easy to say he would have killed her, erased her influence in his life completely… almost as easy as it was to say that he would have shoved her face first against the nearest tree and fucked her senseless, right there in the snow, cementing their connection the moment he met her.

Sans’s soul throbbed suddenly, agony shattering his thoughts into splinters of reality, and the sheer pain in his chest nearly buckled his knees, his hands clutching desperately at the tree for support as a gasp of pain escaped him, his sockets scrunching shut against a feeling, deep inside his rib cage, that he could only describe as _tearing_.

The pain that had ripped through him when Frisk had shot him down had not dispersed, had only grown stronger… the only time it had dissipated, even a little, was when he had been inside of her, fucking her so hard he had barely noticed the aching; just the thought of how she had felt around his cock, how damn perfectly she had fit against his bones even as she had struggled to escape him, made both shame and sparking desire pull at his consciousness.

Scowling severely and glaring at nothing and resenting the diverging emotions that constantly pulled at his attention, Sans regained his balance and shoved himself away from the cracking, frost painted trunk of the tree he had been propping himself up against with surging frustration burning in his bones; trembling in his pain and growing anger, Sans balled his hands, stood stock still, as though in contemplation…

And then slammed a fist against the tree before him, splintering bark and ice and wood against his knuckles.

It didn’t help, only stabbing more pain into his already aching bones; he cursed foully and flexed his now sore hand idly, glaring at the indentation he had left in the wood, before punching again, sap sticking to his clenched phalanges as the tree groaned and shuddered and bled under the force of his blow.

This was just another thing that was _all her fault_ … he had never punched a tree in his _life_ before she fell.

He had punched plenty of monsters, Jerry an almost daily target for his forceful violence (it was almost funny to hear the little shit whine), and he fought extremely often with Papyrus, a good day one when he managed to get a blow in without getting beaten too badly himself.

It was almost an hourly occurrence, now, though, when he had to take out yet another bout of rage and temper on the trunk of a fucking tree; she infuriated him, even when she wasn’t there, but the time was long passed that he could convince himself it was acceptable to lay hands on _her_ , to make her hurt as much as he did in his confusion and anger.

Most times, at least…

Sans flinched at the remembrance of her trembling hands clutching at his shoe as he had pressed it into the center of her chest, crushing the air from her body, at the vision of her begging silently for mercy as he had choked her viciously with the collar around her neck; he had hit her, too, backhanding her across the face so hard she had passed out for almost ten minutes…

Saying nothing of the damage he had done by forcing himself into her body and fucking her hard enough to make her cry and scream and _bleed_.

His teeth gritted together sharply, panicked chagrin scrambling his thoughts (what was he going to do _now_? How could he fix this? Could he at all? He had no fucking clue…), and found no other recourse but to hit the tree again, and again, and again, pummeling it until his fury and his diseased hatred and his damned  _fucking_ disgrace became too great to be distracted by his paltry show of vehemence, his magic leaking into his left eye socket to search for a victim for his undiluted despair.

He raised a shaking, splinter littered hand, panting for breath and sweating even more than he already had that evening (a flash of bare skin dappled in his scarlet tinted perspiration shot across his vision, racking his body with a wince of guilt), and forcefully pulled two slumbering Gaster Blasters from the Void, their keens of confusion and dissent falling on deaf ears.

Sans immediately pointed in a vague direction, ordering an attack on anything and everything within striking distance, and despite the lack of a visible enemy, the tired, perplexed beasts obeyed immediately (why couldn’t she do that? If she just listened… if she just did as she was told…) and opened their maws to blast forth beams of red magic into the copse of trees before them, a row of century old pines crashing to the forest floor and igniting into an inferno.

They crackled and snapped, sending flickering light through the too dark emptiness of the wind whipped forest (he couldn’t stay out for long, he reminded himself idly; there was a blizzard blowing in), but even the deaths of the majestic trees did not move his gathering ire, did not dismiss the tears on her face or the rejection in her trembling voice as she turned him away in favor of that pathetic son of a bitch _again_.

It was not enough.

He gave the order again, his jaw aching from the strength that he was clenching his teeth together and his magic flaring uncontrollably; another row of trees fell, catching fire in the heat and ferocity of his assault.

Not enough; he could still see her crying, could still feel her hatred for him.

More.

Again, he raised his hand, claws extended and trembling and covered in ash; the lasers fired once more, razing shattered wood and cracking stone and blazing flashes of ionized light through the forest.

Still, she wept.

Still, she lay broken and bleeding and whispering _no, no, no_ , you are not _enough_.

Again, and his grin held no amusement, broken glass covered in blood and dust.

Again, and his whole body shook, a crumbling leaf in the gale of his misery.

Again, and the smaller of the Blasters let out a whine of exertion, unused to channeling so much magic at once, but the other growled at it, knowing the punishment for disobedience and weakness.

Again, and he couldn’t see straight, his vision overflowing with the wrong he had done and the deadness in her eyes and the void between what he wanted and what he couldn’t have.

Again, the last, his energy and will to see more destruction gone; he collapsed to his knees, shaking and letting his summoned weapons rest and feeling his magic sink back into his bones, like settling seas after the storm of his fury.

He had found no relief, only emptiness, and the lack of his wrath, of his cravings, of even the jealousy that had so consumed him tonight, left him alone with the worst of his despair, with the soul rending realization of the fact that _it wasn’t her fault at all_ , he was to blame, he was sick and twisted and **nothing** and deserved the dismissal he had received.

In the crackling flames left behind by the height of his anger, wood snapping and stone crumbling, Sans, at last, let a sob escape him, his back bowing and his hands, trembling in his desolation, rising to grasp at the center of his chest, the source of an agony so deep and penetrating he could barely think straight.

The searing pain only worsened as he felt, thick and wet and hot, tears streak down his cheekbones, dripping over the flat surface of his fangs to drip from his chin, staining the front of his sweater and the slush he knelt in.

He numbly noted the liquid gathering in a shivering pool between his knees, standing out against the stark white of the snow and the blackness of the shifting charcoal of the burning trees as another sob ripped from his chest; the magical tears danced, lost and strange energy, on the ground, sending soft illumination over the stitching of his shorts.

He felt deranged, breathless and gasping through racking and ragged tears and uncaring of anything outside of his misery, of the pain that threatened to reduce him to dust and the helpless, pleading cries for mercy that _he could_ _still hear_ , echoing unpleasantly and forever inside his skull.

His delirium robbed him of everything but a bizarre kind of wonder, his empty sockets watching his expelled magic sizzle and undulate and sink back into the earth from whence it came as even more trickled down his face.

It was odd, Sans thought to himself indolently, as his finger bones clutched at his ribs through his sweater, his bones shaking as another cry of wretched melancholy afflicted his body.

It was odd that _this_ was what finally broke him.

He had not cried in over a century… one hundred and twenty-four years, to be exact.

He remembered the year, because it had been the one that he had spread his mother’s dust on the roots of her favorite echoflower, the one that grew beside her sitting bench in Waterfall.

Secluded, serene, and quiet, just like she had been, and the only place she could go to be alone with her thoughts, to escape, at least for a little while, from _him_ (he should visit again, soon… it had been months, and the quiche he had brought last time must be gone by now).

It had been the year _he_ had disappeared into the Core, never to be seen again but in reluctant memory and unhinged nightmares.

It had also been the year that he had taken custody of Papyrus, put his old home to his back, and never returned, abandoning science and all he knew in the hope of a new beginning; they couldn’t have stayed there, haunted by the horror of the life they had lived with _him_.

Sans had sworn to himself, as he had trudged the long road to Snowdin, clutching at the tiny bundle of bones that had been all he had to his name, that he couldn’t be what he had been his whole life, weak and cowardly and always crying over the unfairness of his life.

She wasn’t there to protect him anymore, for him to go to and weep away his troubles and be given such star sent reassurance that everything would be okay.

He had needed to be that for Papyrus, had to be strong and fearless and not what he really was inside (lonely, lonely, lonely, why had she gone and left him _alone_ ) for the then so tiny, so innocent baby monster, and had, that very day, erected a wall around his soul so thick and hard and cold that he had never questioned its strength.

And he had been just that for over a hundred years, frigid and inflexible and rough, killing instead of hiding, building a towering, vicious temper every time he wanted to be sad… protecting by hard example and supporting through harshness and teaching with cruelty, raising Papyrus to never be weak like he had been, like he still was when he was in his bed at night, ceaselessly and eternally _alone_.

No, he had not cried, had not allowed himself to feel anything but his dissatisfied anger and his hunger for companionship and his need for violence, not even when Papyrus had ceased to need him anymore, had become so great that he was barely worth his brother’s consideration.

Sans had learned the hard way to accept that too, though, to turn his back and not care about Papyrus’s dismissals and ignore the ache of loss, to drown it in alcohol and lust and hard, callous words; it was just another part of his life devoured by the endless days beneath the caverns that he was forced to call home.

His continued loneliness, the centuries that had passed without giving him his companion, a mate to assuage his long, tortured existence with, had pressed on him, had broken his will and fizzled his expectations and driven him to extremes: he was sure he had fucked his way through at least half of the females in the Underground, and had he had any internal organs to poison, he was sure he would have rotted them away fifty years ago with all the alcohol he swilled.

Not even resigning himself to a life of eternal disappointment and empty bottles and even emptier whores had driven him to tears, though, had only made him harder and colder; he had begun to doubt that there was anything that could ever make him feel again.

And then she had fallen.

Her very existence had thrown his life into chaos, chipping at the wall he had thrown up and making him doubt the strength he had clung to so desperately and making him see, that through all the years that he had suffered through, he had learned _nothing_ , had still been hiding all that time.

All it had taken was one sentence to break that wall, in the end.

One sentence, and he was that fresh faced child again, clinging to his mother’s skirts when _he_ came home and raged about another failed experiment and took his anger out on his mate and children.

One sentence, and he was the reluctant lab assistant, a syringe shaking in his hand while his brother struggled weakly against the restraints on the exam table, _his_ voice demanding his compliance.

One sentence, and his mother was falling into dust in his hands, _his_ insane laughter echoing in his skull.

One sentence, and he pushed, watching _him_ fall into the abyss, slamming the door to the empty house, holding his wailing brother to his chest, running from the pain and the heartache and the past.

Frisk had broken a hundred years of work with a few words, _one fucking sentence_ , and had reduced him to ash, had broken him to pieces in her tiny hands.

But even in her malice, even in the hardest ferocity that she had been capable of (he knew the depths of her capacity for kindness, had seen the times for himself when she gave up her very life for another), even in the harshness of her rejection, she had never descended to his level, had not meant to hurt him the way he had hurt her, over and over.

She may have destroyed the hope that he had allowed into his soul, and him along with it, but he had done much worse in response, worse than she had ever deserved.

The ruin he had wrought, the potential he had destroyed, in his malice and pain and selfishness and impatience and just plain fucking _cruelty_ … what he had taken from her without giving her a choice…

He was no better than _him_ , at his very worst.

He should have known he would grow up to be his father’s son.

Sans’s hollow rib cage throbbed angrily, punishing him for his actions, and he flinched accordingly, shame and agony and soul deep sadness lowing his bony eyelids over his empty sockets, his tears still falling freely to the ground.

Why couldn’t he have left her alone… why couldn’t he have just freed her, let her go on her journey, let her save them all like she plead to, every day?

He knew why, knew that he was greedy and desperate for her and so, so afraid that she would die and leave him _alone_ , but he should have never ingratiated himself so deeply as to need her that badly.

If he had done his job, let her be the sacrificial lamb that she had been meant to be from the beginning, they could have all been free by now…

But Frisk had been an anomaly from the beginning, baffling him from the second he had seen her and giving rise to feelings so complex he could barely comprehend them.

He hadn’t stood a chance, hadn’t had a prayer of resisting her gravitational pull; at the time, he hadn’t had a clue just how strange and, admittedly, special she really was… he _still_ only had the barest idea of her character, after a little more than a month of knowing her and wanting her and falling for her so hard he wasn’t sure he would ever drag his sorry ass out of the crater he had been left in.

He couldn’t have resisted, even if he had tried. Even _though_ he had tried.

He’d been lost since that very first day, in the midst of a blizzard so strong it had woken him out of a dead sleep, infuriatingly half an hour early (he had dearly valued his sleep, then, the only time he had been allowed to have to himself).

Sans had gone to his sentry station outside the Ruins that stormy morning with plans to sneak over to the old caverns, once Papyrus had gone to walk his patrol on the opposite side of Snowdin; he had waited impatiently, tapping a clawed fingertip against the counter he had sat behind and listening to his brother’s daily lecture morosely.

He had been excited to get going, and had had no interest in what the haughty Captain of the Royal Guard had been saying; he hadn’t paid the ex-queen a visit in quite some time, after all, and she had always been good for a few laughs… some days, he had needed an excuse to laugh, the monotony and emptiness of his existence pressing in on him, and that day had been one of them.

So once Papyrus had stomped back off into the woods, in a particularly foul mood despite Sans’s sycophancy (he had gotten an extra slap upside the head for his blind agreements, accused of being sarcastic), he had only waited a few moments, fidgeting in his seat, before slipping away from his station and flashing through the forest to the doors of the Ruins, smirking and raising his hand to knock at the massive stone doors.

He could teleport inside, very few places in the Underground outside his reach of influence, but a small part of him had honestly enjoyed the anonymity; he had considered, one day, surprising the old goat and letting himself in, just to see the look on her face (and maybe to make good on all the dirty jokes he had liked to tell her; the way the rumors went, she had been quite the fireball in her day, and he had already gone through all the bitches in town several times… he had needed fresh meat).

As he had reached out to rap his knuckles against the carved rock, though, he had glanced passingly at the ground, shifting a small amount of snow off the toe of one of his shoes, and had noticed the drag marks that evidenced the doors having been opened recently with a jolt of surprise, accompanied by small, trundling footsteps leading down the path behind him (the storm had been howling through the forest with even more vigor by that time, blowing drifts of sleet and hail across the path, and would have covered any changes in the scenery within minutes).

Someone had left the Ruins, and had walked away into the icy deluge.

Sans wondered, sometimes, what would have come from his desire to ignore the staggering footsteps leading into the gathering dark, if he had turned back and knocked on the door before him despite his curiosity.

Would he have seen her before Papyrus had captured her and taken her to the king?

Would he have even known that his soulmate had been murdered before he saw her soul on display at the breaking of the barrier?

He didn’t know, and didn’t like to think about the depths of insanity he would have been driven into at the loss of her, at the realization that he had let his mate slip between his fingers in favor of a few knock knock jokes.

Perhaps it would have been better, though… now, there was no hope for him.

Now that he knew her body, now that he knew her _soul,_ there would be no rest, no day spent without gnawing worry that she would come to harm without him by her side, no hour passed where she didn’t occupy his mind.

He would spend the rest of his life, long after she had passed on (humans lived such short lives… he had so little time with her…), consumed by her.

The speculation was unnecessary, though, because Sans hadn’t turned away, had abandoned the door and followed the shallow trail back into the woods; his magical irises had squinted at the blurry horizon (even his enhanced sight had not been able to cut all the way through the depths of the storm), occasionally flicking down to the path before him to double check that the wandering footprints were still heading down the main road, from behind the fringe of his raised, furred hood.

He had thought it, more than likely, just a monster on the way to shop in the city, no reason to desert his plans…

But he had been living in those parts for over a hundred years, had been watching the paths (half-heartedly, admittedly) for just as long, and had never seen footprints like these before.

Once he had assuaged his curiosity, he had promised himself, he would go back to the doors.

All too soon, a wavering shadow had appeared through the galing storm, paused in front of the heavily locked and gated bridge not far from his sentry station; the closer he had drawn, stepping cautiously into the cover of the diseased, dead trees to avoid being seen, the clearer the silhouette had become, and eventually had revealed the figure of an upright, shivering female, her shoulder-length hair blowing around her hopeful expression and her hands wrapped around her body as she had turned on the spot several times, apparently looking for something.

He had stumbled to a halt, awkward in his surprise, as he had recognized, from long ago, the creature that all monsters hunted desperately, the source of their freedom; it had been over two centuries since the last had fallen into the Underground, and he had been very young when he had attended their execution… he had barely remembered what they looked like.

The only texts that the monsters had retained that contained illustrations of the creatures were exaggerated, depicting their race as ugly and cruel… he remembered thinking that the girl had been surprisingly pretty and gentle looking in comparison.

She was a rare commodity, the hope of the Underground, the thing that his brother had been hoping to capture, for glory and recognition and fame, for almost his whole life… she was a human, and had been unlucky enough to fall into his hands.

Once he had recovered from his surprise (seeing her there, trembling but determined, had shocked the shit out of him), hiding behind the trunk and clutching at the flaking bark of one of the trees to mask his form to her searching eyes, Sans had grinned so widely and maliciously that his cheekbones had ached; finally, he had found a way to help Papyrus, had found a way to maybe, for the first time since the taller skeleton had been a child, have him look at him like he was more than a waste of space.

He hadn’t been that happy in a _long_ fucking time; it had been so important, then, to capture her and redeem himself.

Sans laughed acerbically at that thought, his teeth gritting together and his fingers digging into his ribs and his tears slipping down the cracking façade of his crumbling emotions.

He hadn’t had any idea what _real_ happiness could be, what he would find inside himself, all brought about by the girl he had already been imagining dead at his feet… he had been an absolute fucking _imbecile_ , over and over, never seeing what was in front of his fucking face and forever bumbling what should have been natural and easy.

He must be the only monster in their history to have fucked up a mating as badly as he had, simply by being stubborn and _stupid_.

He had teleported behind her from his position behind the tree immediately, in that long removed time, and had raised a fist to knock her out, unknowing and giddy anticipation buoying his exultant grin (he had noted that she was older than the last human had been, no longer a child, judging by the curvature of her body, but that her soul would do nevertheless), but before he could strike had glimpsed a face peeking at him, from her shoulder.

It had looked like a weird flower, petals flapping in the gale, and had been staring at him like it knew him, _knew_ what he intended to do to the girl.

Normally, he wouldn’t have cared.

Let the fucking thing scowl; all he had wanted was the girl, the flower could fuck off.

But when Sans had locked eyes with the little monster, snow streaking by on the brisk wind, he had been struck with what had felt like vertigo, the world around him fading in and out sporadically; his eyesight had blurred, darkened and lightened, then had morphed, crackling like the old television in Grillby’s and fading into what had looked like… a memory.

In the strange vision, the flower had been giggling gleefully, leering and malicious and _dangerous_ , surrounded by dust and blood; it’s thorned vines had encompassed a group of monsters that were familiar but also not (was that… Papyrus? What in hell’s name was he _wearing_?), including himself.

The girl, much younger but clearly still her, had knelt in front of it in the barrier room of Asgore’s castle, broken and bleeding and begging for mercy; a glowing, golden heart had been clasped around her neck, and lying at her side, broken and useless, had been a stick, about as impractical a weapon as could be imagined.

Just by looking at her, he had been able to tell that she had never hurt anyone in her life.

The flower, filled with the power of the human souls the king had captured as well as the combined magic of the monsters it had seized (he had felt, with no small amount of panic, his own soul being drained, crushed and dissolved and cast into the darkness of despair and futility), had then transformed into an eldritch creature of infinite power, monologuing and humiliating and mocking the girl…

And had then proceeded to kill her so viciously even _he_ had felt sick (and he had once strangled a monster to dust with its own innards).

The memory had cycled again and again, the creature’s vile laughter echoing in the infinite darkness as the human fell to its deadly blades and energy beams and stellar bombs; she never struck at it, only asked for forgiveness and compassion, and died for her kindness every time.

Sans had seen her broken body fall, watched her brilliant soul shatter over and over and over, listened to her scream in pain and cry out for help that never came (his soul had shrunk with a sorrow so helpless and miserable that it left him breathless, hearing her beg for help; what was happening? Why did he even fucking _care_?) and breathe her last breath, heard the thing taunt her as her blood splattered across the tiles she lay on.

It had murdered her hundreds of times, and yet, outside the memory, sitting in its victim’s arms within the confines of an old, dirt filled boot, it had looked at him like _he_ was the danger, shouting a warning to the girl and alerting her to his presence (damn it all, he had wanted an easy capture…).

It shouldn’t have mattered, he had known; he had just been imagining things, he had told himself.

But when the flower had stretched its leaves out in front of the human, glaring at him tremulously, he had felt a vengeful anger that wasn’t his, a fearful protectiveness that denied inaction, a rage so old and encompassing that it had made his soul shudder, and instead of doing as he had planned and knocking the monster out of the way so he could get to the girl…

Sans instead had seized the flower by its stem and yanked it away from the human protectively, looking into its wide eyes with a grin of awful retribution baring his teeth.

“ _never again_ , you soulless fuckin’ wretch,” he had muttered to it, voice nearly hidden by the howl of the storm, not sure where his knowledge came from but perfectly happy to rid the world of the abomination, and had taken actual pleasure in ripping it to pieces in his hands, its dust scattering on the wind satisfactorily.

 _‘reset from **that** , fucker’_, he had thought, shaking ash from his fingers idly and ignoring his confusion over the strange circumstance for the moment (reset? What the hell was a reset?), then had turned to meet the teary, panicked eyes of the human, looking down on her shuddering, flinching form with a growing smirk of predatory superiority (she had looked so weak and small, bowing away from him in her fear… he had been so satisfied by that, then).

When he had held out his hand to her, though, inviting her to shake it with menacing glee (if she had been stupid enough to try, he’d have had her in a trice, maybe even broken her arm for good measure), his vision had started to waver again, blurring and fading at the edges, accentuated with the jarring sound of white noise, so loud it had almost blanked out the storm.

Sans had seen, in the shaking vision, a double of his arm, extended to the same, much younger version of her that he had seen earlier, in much the same way he currently was, but encased in faded, stained blue fabric and hiding, in the palm of its hand, a small whoopee cushion (he had snorted, within; the old whoopee cushion in the hand trick? That got old _really_ fast).

He had immediately withdrawn his hand, stunned and confused and lost in the image thrown over his vision (what the _fuck_ was going on? Was she doing that? Was it magic?), and had thus been blind to the girl immediately fleeing from him, sprinting into the shadows of the looming forest at his side with a sob layered over her already panting breath.

He had noticed a moment later, however, after he had rubbed the palms of his hands into his sockets to dismiss the odd vision; he had whipped his gaze around the then empty path in perplexity before spotting her fleeing footprints, and had cursed loudly at the inconvenience before tearing apart the fabric of space to give chase, flashing into the forest in the hope that he would be able to spot her.

Frisk had been easy to track, fortunately (he remembered being very smug about that, enjoying her tripping, awkward escape and feeling extremely cocky for it), despite the darkness of the trees and the ferocity of the storm, and he had almost started to have fun, flashing just into her line of sight to spook her and slowly corner her into the densest part of the wood.

Sans had quickly lost his sadistic humor in the situation, though, when her sobbing cries and constant, fear induced tears had started to give rise to more of that same static, the wavering of his vision and the loss of his control on his reality; he had seen, in the haze of impossible memory, her anguish multiplied across countless days, enough tears falling from her eyes to fill an ocean, and her misery had given him no joy, oddly (he was no stranger to taking pleasure in other’s suffering… it lessened his own), instead pulling at his soul in a way he had thought long dead.

He had not pitied anyone in a _very_ long time… he had not known he still could.

Confused and cast adrift by the strange, unwelcome feelings being thrust into his head and getting angrier and angrier the less he understood, he had finally given up his cruel pastime and had flashed beside the panicked human, extending a foot to trip her and send her skidding, face first, into a snow poff.

He would have laughed if he hadn’t been irate.

Sans had dragged her off the ground with a hand clenched around her neck, shaking in his bewildered rage, and had squeezed her throat, cutting off her air, purely out of spite, her struggling and gasping and weak escape attempts cathartic and empowering… until they hadn’t been, until he had started to feel a foreign sense of _worry_ as her eyelids had drooped and her lips had turned blue, her fingers around his wrist growing weaker and weaker.

What did it matter to him? She would be easier to handle unconscious.

He didn’t know this bitch, didn’t have any reason to feel bad for choking the breath from her body.

Why did he fucking _care_?

He had though, had felt no desire to hurt her like he had just a moment before, and had dropped her to the forest floor unceremoniously, giving her time to catch her breath while he had considered, with mounting confusion, how he had been acting that morning.

It hadn’t made sense, not in the least, muddled even further by the fuzz of odd memory that pressed at the edges of his vision, and if he hadn’t been so curious, hadn’t felt his long neglected scientific need to discover urging him onward, he would have killed her right where she lay in the snow.

Instead, he had kicked her in the side, _hard,_ and had demanded to know who she was, how she had been stupid enough to fall into the Underground, and why he shouldn’t just snap her neck and take her soul.

He had been sure she wouldn’t provide a good enough answer to stay his hand, that he would be presenting her head to his brother within the hour…

Instead, he had stood, silent and intrigued, for almost five minutes while the girl tremulously told her life’s story, detailing a journey through an Underground so different from his that his mind had instantly rejected her words as falsehoods and trickery.

He had stayed quiet, though, let her expound on her travels through Snowdin, Waterfall, Hotland, and even the Core to battle her way to the barrier, which she had broken to save and redeem the monster race.

She had spoken of “resets”, time loops and changing events and Determination, but Sans had only stopped her when she had claimed to know _him_ , to have been _friends_ with him for almost ten years; he had grabbed her by the hair, firmly ignoring the warning in the back of his mind that he was hurting her, and had called her a liar, assuring her that he had never seen her before in his life and would never, to the day he turned to dust, be _friends_ with a filthy human.

Even as he had said it, though, even as he had dragged her to her feet and twisted her arms behind her back hard enough to make her cry out in pain, he had seen _another_ memory, layered by time and fond perusal; the girl, again young and spunky and draped in an oversized striped sweater, had sat beside him at Grillby’s, in the vision, laughing and sharing food and chatting comfortably.

She had smiled at him, laughed at his jokes… had even reached out and touched his arm, something that he, in that memory, had welcomed wholeheartedly.

There had been strange magic at work there, he could tell, but his curiosity and his confusion and the sudden, strange feeling that he _did_ know her had convinced him not to end her life, had pressed him to find out more, and as such he had clutched her wrists tight in his grasp, pulled her close to him, and had stepped between realities with Frisk in tow, dragging her through the Void to the small shed outside of his home that Papyrus had outfitted into a jail cell.

The only person it had ever held captive had been Doggo, one night after going on a drug fueled rampage through the town, but the bars inside were strong, and would serve to hold the human until he could decide how to approach the situation.

He had also noted that it would keep her from being discovered by his brother until he had found out why she was there, as Papyrus never went out the shed and, to his knowledge, was always kept locked.

Sans, satisfied with his plan, had then thrown the confused girl to the floor and had ordered her to keep quiet until he came back later that night, if she wanted to live; she had crawled away from him hurriedly to curl into one of the corners of the room, rocking and holding her knees and sobbing silently to herself.

He had been both amused and disappointed by her, then, having been told many times how ruthless and warlike humans were when fully grown.

He had spat an insult at her passingly, dismissive and disillusioned, before flashing back to his sentry station, his hopes to exchange a few jokes with the former queen long forgotten.

He had spent the rest of the day, and the evening after that, wondering at what to ask her, how to find out what he needed to know, and what to do about the visions that had _still_ pestered him; he had seen her everywhere, building snowmen beside the Christmas tree and singing along with the bird monster at the bar to the tune of the jukebox and running through town with a pack of striped sweater wearing monster children, laughing and playing and _happy_.

The memories told him that he had been happy then, too, had cared _deeply_ for the runt, and, disgustingly, had had a penchant for taking pictures of the brat, which he had showed to everyone at the bar often.

Sans, despite his distaste for the strange memories, had eventually stopped fighting them and had watched, grumpily but with interest, visions of the kid petting Greater Dog, of giving a gift to a beaming Papyrus (which had contained a plate of spaghetti, causing such long, raucous laughter between himself and the girl that she had turned red in the face), of his own hands stacking twenty-nine hotdogs on top of the kid’s head.

His confusion never dissipated, not understanding how or why or even _when_ those memories had happened, but he had been determined to find out, and had, the instant Papyrus had disappeared into his room, practically ran to the shed outside, firmly believing he would get his answers that night.

He had not anticipated, however, his prisoner’s insolence.

Frisk had been amusingly weak and pathetic when he had captured her, crying and struggling weakly and all but fainting from the panic he had seen in her wide, glassy eyes (he had that effect on people, known for his ruthlessness and brutality… it was as pleasing as it was ego boosting), but had shown her true colors to him that night, her back straight as soon as he had walked in and her answers to his questions sarcastic and scathing.

She had held her head high, stared him down despite her shivers and her hunger and the terror that still echoed in the line of her gaze, and had refused to tell him what he needed to know, instead demanding release from her prison so that she could continue her “journey”.

She had been stubborn, rude and petulant and almost as foulmouthed as he was, and he had been swept away by the change, capable of nothing but staring at her numbly, his magic surging with interest and heat.

At another time, in another place, Sans would have screwed her on the spot, as soon as she stood up to him; he had always found women with spirit an extreme turn on, and even with her dirty, torn clothes and her ragged, burned hair and her sooty skin (and, of course, the fact that she was a human… monsters and humans weren’t supposed to mix… right?), he had felt a stirring of arousal upon hearing the bite in her words and seeing the fire in her eyes.

He had quashed that spark immediately, though, by backhanding the little bitch across the face and beating her unconscious.

She had clearly enjoyed a lot of privilege in her former timeline, though he hadn’t been sure he believed her about that, at the time (the fuzzy memories had tried to surface each time he looked at her, like he was looking through someone else’s eyes at her, and he hadn’t been sure what to think about them yet), and had needed to be taught some respect; he had made sure that she knew exactly who she was dealing with that night, that he wouldn’t tolerate any attitude from her, and if she wanted to keep living, she would learn, and quickly, to do as she was told.

Sans had let her feel the pain of that beating for almost a week, too, before finally giving her food so she could heal (she had barely been able to move during that time, coughing up blood and crying almost constantly; he had scoffed at how fragile she was, but had reminded himself to be more careful in the future, wary of her explanation of resets… what if she could use them to escape?).

He remembered being disgusted by how sloppily she ate, once he had handed her the bowl of cold stew he had brought out for her, had thought, with a sneer, that he had been crazy to think that he had been even remotely attracted to this small, messy, weak _human_.

The revulsion hadn’t lasted long, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise.

Once Frisk had recovered from his assertive punishment, she had groomed herself with the soap he had tossed at her carelessly (along with some blankets and a dirty dog bowl for water), revealing smooth, soft looking skin and, though still singed and tangled, dark brown hair that he could already imagine his phalanges twisted in and a fleshy, delectable figure he usually had to avert his sockets from to keep his cool.

The weird memories hadn’t helped, visions of the girl filling his head even when he hadn’t been with her; he had relived countless recollections of her swimming, drops of water following the natural lines of her body, of watching her hips sway as she walked beside him and talked about everything and nothing (the way her mouth moved made him wonder hapless, unclean thoughts too, the glimpses he caught of her wet, pink tongue tantalizing and rousing).

He had even had fucking _dreams_ about her, of seeing her in clothes he had never seen her wear (his grudging favorites were the sundresses, bright colored fabrics clinging to her curves and baring her long, full legs), of listening to her laugh and sing and dance, her sinuous body twisting in ways he couldn’t help but appreciate, and once, on a night he couldn’t force himself to forget, he had been jolted out of a dream that had featured an accidental viewing of her panties, striped cotton stretched tight across an ass he had fervidly longed to dig his finger bones into, sweat pouring down his skull and his sleeping pants uncomfortably tight.

Sans hadn’t slept the rest of that night, deliberately ignoring his erection and digging his knuckles into his closed sockets, trying to scrub the persistent afterimage of the girl in seductive underthings from his vision.

Still, he had denied the draw of attraction he felt, determined to gain no attachment to the human; he had been crueler to Frisk, in those days, torturing and beating and punishing her viciously to try to keep at bay any feelings that could be growing (he had blamed the odd visions, forcing him to see and imagine things that were not, _could_ not be real), but even in his forceful anger and stern resolve to resist the pull of fascination, he hadn’t liked to hurt her, had shied away from the worst of what he could do to her, an idiosyncrasy he had not encountered before in his lifetime of torturing and fighting and experiments.

Instead of enjoying her anguish and pain, as he had been accustomed to… he had often ended the night feeling physically ill, unable to escape a strange sense of guilt even in his sleep.

Eventually, though, the pieces had started to come together, despite his own feelings and frantic attempts to cover them up, the more he got to interrogate the girl; she had learned her lesson that first night, it seemed (for the most part, at least… occasionally he had to remind her who was in charge, and did his best not to pay attention to how much he disliked harming her when he had to assert himself), and had started giving him relevant information, helping him understand her out of place existence.

Frisk had been pulled from a future where she had already saved the Underground, where she had freed the monsters and made peace with the humans as their ambassador (why would she do that? Humans were uncaring trash, interested only in their own power, they all knew that… she must have been lying. Why would she care about monsters?), but had been forced back into the Ruins after almost a decade, where everything had been changed.

It had never changed for her before, not once during her hundreds upon hundreds of “resets”; this was a term he had become intimately familiar with, as she had spoken of it often, mostly in reference to the beginning of a new timeline, created in reaction to her dying… Sans had done his best to understand her explanation, but had eventually just glossed over the specifics of the reactions and stuck to the changes themselves.

Determination was an odd, extremely powerful magic, nuanced and mutable and one he, admittedly, did not fully understand (Gaster had been far more educated in it and its uses and fluctuations), and had had no time to waste on fruitless discussions of magic theory.

His limited understanding of the reasons why notwithstanding, her new timelines had always been the same, like clockwork, all the monsters but her world’s version of himself and the flower he had destroyed unknowing of the looping space time events.

Frisk hadn’t been able to explain why it had changed, just as confused as he was, and this was what had vexed him most evenings that he went out to see her, his frustration only mounting the longer he had gone without answers.

Why had she been recalled without resetting of her own volition?

Why had she come at the age she was, instead of becoming the child she had been, as she always had before?

What had happened to cause such drastic change to the Underground in her absence?

The questions were unending, most having no answer that he could pull from her; he had even dug out some of his old equipment, in an attempt to make sense of the mess he had been presented with, but had become quickly exasperated with the tools as well, gaining nothing but a headache that had persisted for nearly three days.

Sans had at least, in time, discovered what had been muddling his memories and making him see things, _feel_ things, that he shouldn’t have access to; with Frisk’s explanation of her old world also came the revelation of her relationship with his other self, a lazy, comedic, pacifistic skeleton that she regularly called her best friend, and the more she had explained, the more connections he had made between what she said and what he saw.

He had then understood the protectiveness he sometimes felt for her, why he had killed the flower monster for no apparent reason (it had hurt her across so many timelines, caused her more pain than almost any other, and his counterpart had _hated_ the flower with a passion that equaled the sun in intensity), and why he gained almost no joy from hurting her when he usually got an almost sexual high from exerting his strength over those below him.

He had watched her grow from a scampy ankle biter into a luscious siren, through the other Sans’s eyes, sharing in joy he had never felt himself and a feeling of family and love he hadn’t had since his mother had fallen.

He still didn’t know how he was able to see these things, how he was able to see into his counterpart’s head from across an entire universe, but he knew one thing… he _hated_ his doppelganger, for having it all, a doting, patient brother and caring friends and happiness and freedom and…

Sans’s soul clenched behind his ribs again, echoing with the ache of the pain she had driven into his chest with her harsh denial, and his skull bowed even closer to the ground, a single tear, before caught in the corner of his eye socket, streaking down the damp curve of his cheekbone.

And for having her.

Sans breathed heavily through his nasal cavity for a moment, sharp inhalations betraying the depth of the agony ripping through his hollow chest, before, with a shuddering sigh and a grunt of exertion, he forced himself up from the ground.

He rubbed one last time at the center of his sternum, wiping his face on the fur lining of the hood of his jacket, then, shaking snow from the knees of his shorts, he turned on the spot and slipped between realities, flashing himself into the dark enclosure of the bathroom in his home.

Flicking on the overhead light with an errant, well practiced motion and shutting the door, very quietly, to the sight of the banistered walkway overlooking the shadowed living room (he couldn’t afford to be heard moving around; Papyrus expected complete silence during the night, even if he never slept), Sans turned the knobs on the sink to fill his palms with water, washing away splinters and sap and splashing his face to rid it of the dried streaks of red magic that lingered there.

Rubbing his bones dry with a towel idly before crumpling it and dropping it in a haphazard pile on the counter, mind already wandering back to his contemplations, he turned off the sink and leaned his palms on the flat granite surface in front of himself, looking up into the mirror to stare sullenly at his own reflection.

His gaze flickered over the cracks in his skull, the sharpness of his teeth and the prevalent, hard lines of practiced anger that creased his bones; there was dried blood flecked over the gold of his replaced canine, reminding him of the depth of the wrong he had committed (she would never forgive him for that… forcing himself into her body was a triviality in comparison), and Sans, frowning even more deeply, lowered his eyes to the zipper on his jacket blankly, sickness and envy clouding his vision.

There were times that he wished he didn’t look the way he did, that he wasn’t so damaged and angular and sharp, sharp _everywhere_ ; he knew how gentle the other Sans had always been with Frisk, how softly he had been able to touch her, never once hurting her… how much she adored him for it… there were times when he wished he was more like _him_.

Maybe _then_ she would have accepted him.

Bitterness narrowed his sockets, twisting the sorrow in his expression into callous hatred, and he looked away from the mirror with a quiet snarl rumbling in his chest cavity, ignoring the stabbing pain in his soul in favor of glaring at his fists, now clenched against the countertop.

Sans hadn’t always known about Frisk and his other self, their interactions outside of friendship and family; he had been quite oblivious, in fact, mostly due to the fact that she never spoke of his counterpart as anything but her closest friend.

The other Sans had not been able to hide how he felt, the occasional hint dropping through the memories (a vision of the too long press of a kiss to her cheek, a dream focused completely on watching beads of sweat drip down her neck to slip between her bouncing breasts as she ran and played), but he hadn’t thought anything of it…

Until they became so frequent he could no longer ignore them.

None of the girl’s accounts of his doppelganger, always depicted as a lethargic clown with good intentions and almost no flaws, had explained why, in some of the memories, his counterpart had watched her with an avidity that bordered on obsession, why he would find excuses to brush against her or put an arm around her or just sit beside her and pester her with terrible puns (his own were _far_ better, he assured himself), and how often he snuck glances at her body, his mind on how much he wanted to touch her.

A memory that had surfaced often, especially when Sans had seen Frisk eating, had been of a summer afternoon on a beach, awash in the light of the sun; the girl had worn a provocative swimsuit in it, cut shorter and tighter than his counterpart had liked her wearing in public (while at the same time admiring the flush of her bared skin from the corners of his sockets), and had been posing ridiculously on a beach towel, sucking animatedly at a pale blue ice cream bar and glancing at the other Sans from the corner of her eye every few seconds.

She had clearly been flirting with him (he had though it a schoolgirl crush, for a time, and nothing more; humans didn’t desire monsters, after all, they were too different… right?), juvenile and unpracticed in the art, but the other Sans had known perfectly well what she was insinuating in her awkward seducing.

He hadn’t ever been able to blame his other self for the bulge in the crotch of his swim trunks (which he had hidden with the newspaper he had been pretending to read) or the way he had watched her lips sink onto the icy treat rapturously, sockets riveted to the streaks of blue juices running down her chin and dripping onto the swells of her breasts… her tongue had peeked out occasionally, sweeping long strokes along the ice cream teasingly, and the other Sans had nearly fainted each time it did, arousal thrumming in his vigorously pumping magic.

When Sans had seen the memory from his own perspective, he had struggled with his control as well, his mind instantly replacing blue with red as he had imagined sinking his claws into her hair to hold her against him, her lips spread wide around his girth while he fucked her face; the juices that had dripped from her chin had become thicker and a glowing scarlet, in the theater of his mind's eye, covering her bared flesh and filling her eager mouth.

His initial viewing of that memory had been the first night he had had a wet dream of her, now that he thought about it...

Something that had often accompanied his mysterious interest in the girl was the proclivity to becoming quite possessive that the other Sans had also possessed; when his counterpart had seen Frisk with other males, he would become almost insanely jealous, anything from her touching their arm to laughing at their side making him grumpy and temperamental (even her spending time alone with Papyrus, a sweet, well intentioned version of his brother that wouldn’t hurt a fly, had made him almost lose his mind with envy).

There was a particularly intense memory of his other self actually _threatening_ Aaron from Waterfall with such ardent, violent jealousy in his tone that shivers ran up his own spine, demanding he stay away from the girl or suffer extreme consequences; the warning had seemed to revolve around a small, uneven red mark the other Sans had had to remove from the girl’s neck, presumably a hickey…

Which meant that Aaron had touched her, at some point… had put his filthy mouth on her.

Sans had begun to develop an unconscious but fervent dislike of the bodybuilder himself after seeing that memory, for reasons that he hadn’t been able to fully explain, glaring at him from across the bar at Grillby’s and shouldering him out of the way when passing him and sneering superiorly when he was forced to talk to him.

He had tried to think nothing of it… but he couldn’t deny that he had thought, a few times, about ripping the bastard’s throat out; the only reason he hadn’t was his resolute refusal to let the memories have any sway on him.

His own oddities aside, he hadn’t understood why the other Sans would act like that with Frisk, with a _human_ , but his actions and thoughts and unholy imaginings had been undeniable; he had clearly felt more for her than brotherly affection or even deep friendship.

If he hadn’t immediately dismissed the thought, arrogant in his supposed understanding of the world, Sans would have thought that his other self was in _love_ with her.

The fullness of the other Sans’s attention to the girl had become clear one night not long into Frisk’s captivity, though, following yet _another_ dream full of her, this time laughing and throwing snowballs and wearing a worn, fur lined blue jacket that made an odd sense of possession run through his magic; she had jumped into the other Sans’s arms, cold and panting for breath and flushed, and had thanked him for his jacket with such heat in her tone that his counterpart had barely resisted popping a hard on with her sitting right there on his lap.

When he had awoken, begrudgingly aware of the hardness pressing at the crotch of his pants (that had been happening more and more often, and had quickly become maddening), he had had a flash of memory, a vision of his other self sitting much the same way he was, on the edge of his bed with his feet on the floor.

The other Sans had clutched a cellphone in one hand, though, the girl smiling and posturing coquettishly in the picture displayed on its screen, and had been jerking off furiously with the other, gasps of her name (Frisk… that had been the first time Sans had ever heard it, almost unsure that his other self was even talking about her; he had never bothered to ask her what her name was, and the realization had made him feel even more out of place) grunting from his between his clenched teeth as he had thought, in vivid detail, of holding the girl beneath him as he buried his cock in her forcefully.

There had been no refuting it, after that… the other version of himself had wanted to be with her, to fuck her little _brains_ out (at least he wasn’t the only one, Sans had thought with relief), and he had shaken away the memory with near satisfaction, finally sure that the errant feelings he had been hobbled by were simply products of his counterpart’s imagination.

Sans had honestly been a little put off by the thought that he had, in another world, accepted an attraction to a human, so far as to needily masturbate in the middle of the night to thoughts of her…

But he had also been morbidly fascinated by the memories he saw of them together, after that, feeling the rush of the other’s magic when Frisk smiled at him and the shortness of his breath when she would press a kiss to his cheekbone and the desperate throb of his arousal when she would flirt with him (it had come as very little surprise to him that she did this often, she looked like the teasing type; she probably played with the males of her kind as well, teasing and fascinating and playing the vixen… why did that upset him so much?).

His doppelganger had been head over heels for her, valuing every moment he could steal away from her above anything else in his life, and seeing how absolutely fucking enamored he had been with her, how damn _happy_ he was to be in her presence and how good she made him feel by just being by her side… Sans’s averseness to his other self’s enchantment with the girl had begun to fade, little by little, replaced with a permeating, glowing feeling that had felt a lot like acceptance and devotion.

It had been a pleasant feeling, the juxtaposition of secondhand but genuine, soul deep attraction, and one that he had come to associate with Frisk unconsciously.

As time had gone on, despite everything he tried to convince himself of in his stubborn pride (he had done his damnedest to find no relevance in her existence, in the reasons behind the way she lived her life and why, for _fuck’s_ sake, he had fallen for her in another life), Sans had found himself less and less invested in finding out why she was there and more and more interested in her past life, her interactions with the monsters and her telling of the Aboveground stunning beyond imagining.

Her journey through the Underground and the subsequent, incredibly happy years spent with her friends and family had struck a chord deep inside that he had thought had been severed long ago; her descriptions of the ocean, the warmth of the sun, and the sound of thunder rolling in the distance had intrigued him beyond compare, almost as much as the in depth conversation he had demanded of her about the night sky.

He had always wanted to see the real stars, spread out as far as the eye could see, and the way she portrayed the universe… the aurora borealis and constellations so far away that the mind could hardly grasp the concept and meteors (she had spoken very wistfully of these, a flush overcoming her cheeks… she must have fond memories of them) … he had only wanted to see them more.

It had been a disturbing realization when Sans had imagined Frisk there with him, when he finally got to see the night sky; he had been left reeling by the ridiculous sentiment and immediately checked himself.

There would be no seeing the stars with her… she would be dead when they were freed.

He had deliberately ignored the hollowness this thought left behind in his chest cavity, his soul twisting uncomfortably; he had been being ludicrous, of course she wouldn’t be there, and he didn’t want her to be.

He had always intended to give the human to his brother, after all, once he had found out why she was here… he had _wanted_ Papyrus to have her, to achieve his goals and become even greater.

Sans had told himself from the moment that he had discovered their source that those memories, that those visions of her, the girl… Frisk… weren’t his, belonged to the other world’s Sans, and had nothing to do with him; he wasn’t a peace loving pussy like him, didn’t care that she had only ever been kind to the monsters around her and deserved more than an unfair, painful end, her existence nothing more than a means to an end for the freedom of those that had killed her.

 _Life_ was unfair; she should get used to it.

He had had a responsibility to turn her over, a loyalty to his brother to help him on his road to success… he had sworn to himself that he wouldn’t be distracted by faded, misplaced memories of helping the girl, of protecting her and battling for her and believing in her.

Of wanting her desperately, and loving her more than anything he had ever known.

But then she would look at him, in moments when he wasn’t threatening her, like he mattered, like she knew him inside and out, like she _loved him too_ , and his very soul had shuddered, held tight by the desire to have it be true.

He hadn’t felt important in a very long time, was only wanted around by dint of his talent with magic, and even though he had known she wasn’t looking at _him_ , had been seeing the Sans that had grown up with her, the way she had talked, sometimes, the way she had _looked_ at him...

Like he was _special_ , and _wanted_ , and… _desired_ …

In those moments, Sans had felt like a new monster, like he had _wanted_ to be the one she looked at like that, and he had been left unsure, vacillating between what was required of him…

And what he really wanted.

He had tried, once, to force himself to give her to Papyrus, to put aside his hesitancy and do as he needed to, about two weeks into her stay in the shack.

He had managed to tell himself that there was nothing more he could learn from Frisk, that he was getting distracted by ridiculous sentiment, by the memories and the feelings he kept getting when he was around her (which he had been, to be honest; he had frequently gotten lost in her eyes, in the memories the other Sans had of the sun dancing on her skin, and had actually been losing sleep over her, tossing and turning and resisting the urge to touch himself while thinking of her passionate voice and her soft body), and had needed to get rid of her; the sooner she was gone, the sooner he could get his mind back in order, he could please his brother, and they could break free of this wretched prison and take over the Aboveground.

He had firmly disregarded the sinking in his chest at the thought of what would happen to her to achieve that end.

Sans had been prepared to drag her to Papyrus that morning, anticipation warring with that strange but prevalent reluctance (he had berated himself, refusing to believe that he was hesitant; he didn’t care about her or her upcoming death, he _didn’t_ ), and had slammed his way into the shed with forced determination… only to find her sleeping deeply, curled up in the corner farthest from the door and nestled in the blankets he had given her.

He had never come in during the day, secluded to sneaking out of the house at night so as not to alert Papyrus to his absence, and had thus never before seen her state after his nightly interrogations.

Dried tear streaks had stood out on her smooth cheeks, bruised from where he had slapped her the night before (she got so fucking mouthy sometimes… she had been lucky that’s all he had done); Frisk had clearly been dreaming, whimpering weakly in her sleep, and, as he had clutched at the bars of her cage, watching her in near reverent silence, she had called his name, soft and low but with loneliness and longing in her tremulous tone.

Sans’s soul had ached at this, misplaced memories of her crying his name in excitement, happiness, and love echoing in his head nonstop; she had never said his name, not to his face, and he had nearly gone to her, had wanted, strangely, to hold her and comfort her.

He hadn’t, had known that he couldn’t, _known_ that he was the source of her nightmares and that she cried out for the Sans that would have saved her ( _that_ had hurt more than it should have), but he also hadn’t been able to convince himself that he was done with her, after that, watching her from afar a few minutes more and then leaving the shed, confused turmoil flustering his mind.

He hadn’t been able to let her go, and had never once understood why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Drop me a line here or visit me on Tumblr, tell me what you thought! Part two will be next week, same time same place, and I hope to see you then!


	7. The Dark Descent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had felt like he was being swallowed by Frisk’s eyes, consumed by her very presence, burned alive and born again, and could mean only one thing.
> 
> They had the strongest connection two beings could have, were resonating in tandem, were Meant To Be, as his mother had described it to him as a young monster… fated to be together from the moment of their births, two halves of the same whole, connected at the most atomic level.
> 
> They were soul mates, Sans had known it without even thinking, and had nearly wept in the overwhelming wash of emotion that had swept over him.
> 
> Finally, he had thought, almost trembling as he felt his soul change forever in his hollow chest, the connection to her immutable and permanent and more than welcome.
> 
> Finally… he wouldn’t be alone anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey, whataya say XD here's that update I promised ya, almost on time <3 just a few minutes late, sorry folks. Don't have much to say about this one, besides that it's the last one of the flashback chapters.
> 
> Same warnings from last chapter apply, and same age restrictions as well. Younger than 18? The door is that way. Please respect yourself and others and obey the law. 
> 
> :) Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Some art for your face-  
> http://kurohaai.tumblr.com/image/144337670620  
> http://kurohaai.tumblr.com/image/143849824520  
> http://kurohaai.tumblr.com/image/143295915815  
> http://kurohaai.tumblr.com/image/142583297315  
> http://solaceblues.tumblr.com/image/144595682049  
> http://kenyaketchup.tumblr.com/post/144083072627  
> http://thebananafrappe.tumblr.com/image/146320567448  
> http://binaryowl.tumblr.com/image/146088641330
> 
> Visit my Tumblr, for updates, fanart, summaries of future fanfics, and other shenanigans!  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thebananafrappe

* * *

Over the weeks that had followed his feebleness, his inability to be the brother that Papyrus wanted and deserved, Sans had found that he liked it, a _lot_ , when Frisk would stare at him when his back was turned, when he would grant her a small kindness or didn’t hurt her, would show mercy, in his interrogations (sometimes, if he had caught her staring, she would blush, and he had liked _that_ a lot too, captivated by the rush of color to her cheeks and wondering, somewhat guiltily, if it extended to her breasts).

He had also found that he liked when she fought back, strong and stalwart despite the pain and fear in her eyes; those were the times when he had felt like he knew her best, like he could feel an old connection, soul deep, with her…

He had begun to truly regret when he overreacted in those times, when he lost his head and would make her cower instead of hold herself high, when she bowed to his whims instead of arguing with him (she was… beautiful, when she was strong, and if he was honest with himself, he preferred her that way).

It always made Sans angrier, frustrated with himself _and_ her when she would provoke him and he would lose his cool; it was a vicious cycle, one that he wished he could break, but he kept fucking it up, kept getting mad and losing his already short temper and hurting her when he wanted… just wanted…

A flash of memory that wasn’t his stole into his head, of holding the girl in his arms and whispering tender nothings into her ear and having her look at him like he was the world, and he flinched, grimacing and cursing and reaching up to rub at the center of his chest.

He hadn’t known what he wanted, not for so long; the contrast of his counterpart’s feelings for her had warred with his own, sometimes overwhelming him so much that all he had been able to do was lay in his bed, stare at the ceiling, and do his best to remind himself of the fact that she was a human and was _very_ unlikely to ever want a monster (and of course, that he couldn’t possibly want her himself).

His other self may have liked to torture himself with the tantalizing impossibility of having Frisk, of satiating his lust in her curvy, warm, loving body (she always welcomed him with open arms, in his fantasies, letting him do whatever he wanted to her with evident pleasure), but that didn’t mean he had to do that same.

That’s what Sans had told himself, at least, in the times when the memories hadn’t been reminding him of how captivating and beautiful she was, so strong and fierce despite the delicacy of her small body… the memories had started pestering him so frequently, plagued him so often, that he had started making allowances, letting himself think about how she might sound if he licked her neck or touched her breasts, letting himself rub his palm against his erections through his shorts, beneath the counters of his sentry stations (never at home, where he would be too tempted…).

He should have known better, should have guessed that his weakness would lead to his downfall, because the dreams and memories had only grown more vivid once he had given ground.

The other Sans had thought of fucking Frisk a _lot_ , almost everything she did when around the skeleton monster making him want her… when she had bent over, his gaze had darted to her ass, hopeful of her skirt rising high enough to glimpse her panties (and thinking of how much he wanted to drag those panties off with his teeth); when she had hugged him, he had imagined her skin burning hot against his bare bones; when she had kissed his cheekbones sweetly, he had longed to thrust his tongue into her mouth, a mere facsimile of how desperately he had wanted to ravage her body.

Which meant that virtually every one of his waking moments had been filled with thoughts and imaginings of _her_ , his nights and days both beleaguered by lustful imaginings of the human in various compromising positions.

On and on the daydreams had gone, what had felt like _years_ of insatiably desirous material sinking into Sans’s skull; he had struggled desperately to separate reality from fantasy from memory, every day, trying to focus on the more platonic memories instead of the flood of pornography (which is what it practically had been, his doppelganger’s imagination of what it would be like to have the girl wild and overreaching) that had rushed through his mind day in and day out.

Sans had started having to spend an egregious amount of time in the shower every day after work, willing his reluctant boners away so he wouldn’t have to spend another sleepless night ignoring them and pretending they weren’t because of Frisk.

He had started to descend into a litany of hazy, faded repetitions, tired and irritable and hornier than he remembered being since his last heat cycle (when was the next one supposed to be? Was it next year? The year after? Five more? He couldn’t remember…).

He had started to slip, the lines between what was acceptable and what was deadly blurring...

He had started making mistakes.

He had almost gotten into a fight with Aaron in the middle of Grillby’s (wouldn’t have been much of a fight… Aaron was a coward and a weakling, and was so far beneath him it was practically _laughable_ ), drunk and lost in the overwhelming memories and mysteriously, fanatically territorial; Grillbz had had to drag him outside and dump him in a snowbank to cool him down.

He had fallen asleep at work, and had talked back to Papyrus when he had woken him up; the taller, harsher skeleton had almost literally taken his head off for that one, only sparing him because “it wasn’t worth the effort”.

That hadn’t saved him from a new crack in his right humerus, though.

He had leaned in and smelled Frisk’s neck, the evening after a day spent plagued by constant, unrelenting images of his other self nuzzling at the crook of her shoulder and throat; her scent was heady and sweet and so permeating that he hadn’t been able to get it out of his head for _days_ (while it had lasted, he had taken to burying his face in his spare pillow, breathing into it deeply and holding it through the night and doing his best not to think about why).

He had moaned her name while jacking off after yet another night of confused longing, intoxicated and curious and too turned on to care about the repercussions; he had denied, immediately afterwards, that it had done anything for him, even though the orgasm he had achieved had been enough to render him incapable of motion for five minutes afterwards.

Sans hadn’t known what was coming, hadn’t seen anything but a passing fog of days sweeping by, wasted on indolent fancies and sleep deprivation and alcohol over ice; the moments he remembered clearest were the nights in the shack, the time spent in her presence and bathed in the soft timbre of her voice.

He had begun to actually look forward to his time with Frisk, the loneliness and melancholy he often trudged through fading in the clinging shadows of the prison he had no longer felt she deserved; he had begun to spend longer and longer there with her, one hour turning to two, and two to three, lost in memories and wishes and the way she would sometimes look at him.

No matter how Sans had enjoyed her company, though, no matter how he thought of her in his idle moments or how much he wished he could have a normal conversation with her, one where he didn’t lose his temper and hurt her even more (he had hated himself a little more each time she flinched when he raised his hand), he hadn’t intended for things to happen the way they did… he hadn’t even entertained the idea she would ever be more than a fascination to him, an anomaly, an error that he would never understand, fuel for vile imaginings that would never come true.

He hadn’t meant to touch her.

But Frisk had argued with him that night, a week and a half ago, snapping at him and mocking him; she had been in a mood, fouler and more contentious than normal (she had explained her human reproductive cycle to him, once, a process that both intrigued and disgusted him, and from her demands for sanitary supplies and the fury with which her body trembled, he could only assume she was experiencing this “period”), and hadn’t been willing to let him walk all over her.

The fire in her eyes had been stunning, and her refusal to totally submit to him engaging; she got him so hot when she was like that, most times unable to keep his mind off the imagining of how much he’d love to dominate her, to show her just how powerless she really was by holding her to ground and fucking her ‘til she _screamed_.

But he had been in a mood that night too, in no temperament to abide her insults and attitude.

He had been so _angry_ , so confused by his mismatched memories and so pissed at his brother for bitching at him all day for not trying hard enough (he already worked two jobs and did all the fucking cleaning; what more did he fucking _want_ from him?!) and so fucking fed up with never getting the answers he needed from her, always left feeling stupid and frustrated and fucking _turned on_ when he left at the end of the night, that before he knew it he had her beneath him, his hands around her throat and his body pressing hers down into the floorboards.

He remembered threatening Frisk, demanding that she recognize her place, but had then registered his position… and what he was feeling with his hands on her skin.

Sans had never felt anything as soft and responsive and warm as her, her body plush against his bones and her skin smooth, like silk; he had had sex before, as frequently as he could get it, in fact (he was a powerful monster, recognized by the king as one of the Underground bosses, so females didn’t resist his advances if they knew what was good for them), but his other partners had never felt like she did, had never been so vibrant and stirring and… and…

 _His_.

He had had another flash of memory, not his but the other’s, with her lying beneath him, her breasts pushing against her dirty dress and her breath panting through her parted lips and her tiny fingers clenching around his wrists… he had remembered his hands clutching those breasts, bare flesh against his bones, buried beneath her clothes and surrounded in warmth.

It hadn’t been like the others, his counterpart’s frequent daydreams… this had been real, this had happened… and it had felt _good_.

Sans had heard her moaning his name softly, in that memory, had felt the wetness of her tongue in his mouth and the rush of her sweet breath mixing with his own; he had felt his own overpowering desire for her piercing to his soul, a deep, patient longing finally manifesting into reciprocated lust.

Frisk’s hand had been wrapped around his cock, he remembered, stroking awkwardly in the confines of his pants, inexperienced but determined… he had also recalled that it hadn’t been enough, had wanted nothing more than to fuck her into the blanket they both lay on (the other Sans had kept an iron grip on his lust, though, resolute not to hurt the girl in his desire, stalwartly waiting for… something).

He had pressed his fingers between her legs instead, under the night sky, had stroked her obviously soaked folds through her pants, and the sounds she had made when he did… how she had arched against his body… how she had felt had been more than obvious, revealed by the licentious and desire layered memory.

His counterpart and his virtuous “honor” be damned… he would have ripped her pants off with his bare hands to get at her, she had been _that_ sexy.

The girl had _wanted_ him, the other Sans, had squirmed beneath his touch and begged for more… it seemed impossible, ridiculous that a human would want a monster, but couldn’t be, not with the way she had clutched at his counterpart and slicked her hand along the length of his dick and sloppily sucked on his tongue (a sensation entirely new to him, so exotic it made his head spin; it was sensual and tantalizing and just the indirect memory almost made him cum in his shorts).

He had _felt_ the depth of her desire through the memory and the reverberation of her own latent magic, the energy that thrummed through her soul, echoing the vision back at him in mind boggling layers of hunger and desperation.

As disconnected and violent as their interactions had been that far, Sans had never had the opportunity to be that close to Frisk’s soul, to feel the aura of her own magic surrounding him, but with his body pressed to hers so intimately, with both his hands only inches from the center of her being, he had felt it, felt the power and ferocity and _determination_ that filled her soul.

He had been practically electrified, as though he had been struck by lightning, in that moment, alive and dead at the same time.

He had felt a connection flow between them like he had never known before, age old magic forming an unbreakable chain of awareness around his soul; his bones had shuddered where they came in contact with her skin, his mind had focused only on her… he had felt his soul throb, stronger every second he touched her, reaching out desperately to try to join with her own.

It had felt like he was being swallowed by Frisk’s eyes, consumed by her very presence, burned alive and born again, and could mean only one thing.

They had the strongest connection two beings could have, were resonating in tandem, were Meant To Be, as his mother had described it to him as a young monster… fated to be together from the moment of their births, two halves of the same whole, connected at the most atomic level.

They were _soul mates,_ Sans had known it without even thinking, and had nearly wept in the overwhelming wash of emotion that had swept over him.

Finally, he had thought, almost trembling as he felt his soul change forever in his hollow chest, the connection to her immutable and permanent and more than welcome.

 _Finally_ … he wouldn’t be alone anymore.

The other Sans had felt the connection too, had felt the undeniable urge to touch her and love her and bond with her for _years_ ; the fullness of the other’s memories of wanting the girl were overpowering, staggeringly so, spanning almost an entire decade of desire and devotion.

He hadn’t just been infatuated with the girl, she was his _soul mate_ … no wonder he had been so obsessed with her.

He had felt the pent up drive to claim her in his bones, echoing his counterpart’s acknowledgement of their resonance; he barely been able to think, barely been able to function, outside of the desperate desire to join with his newly discovered mate.

It had been _agony,_ such that he wouldn’t have wished on himself; Sans had only begun to feel the need for her moments ago, and had already felt the weight of his instincts bearing down on him, the unrelenting urge to possess her, _forever_ , completely occupying his mind and causing him actual physical pain every second that he resisted.

Monsters, after all, never waited very long after finding their soul mates to share their mark and begin the bonding process; the pain of a soul separated from its counterpart, once it knew it existed, was inexorable and excruciating.

Sans had felt a surge of foreign and quickly reigned in pity, for the other Sans; he couldn’t imagine waiting nine _days_ to connect with Frisk now that he had found her, much less nine _years_.

In the cool of the dark shed, outside of the clarifying, world shattering memory, he had felt the cloying heat of his clothes and the closeness of the air, the flame of completion and wholeness in his bones, and how badly he wanted to wrap himself in her and never be parted again; he had known he would find everything he had ever wanted in her, in her body and her smile (he had never seen her smile in person; he would have to change that) and the fullness of her being.

He had wanted her… he had wanted her irrevocably and completely and _forever_ , and if what the vague memory had told him was true, she was already his to take, her moans of his name in the blotchy, hazy vision all the permission and acceptance he needed.

Sans had felt the brand of ownership sink into the magic that ran through him, the mantra of _mine, mine, all mine_ etching itself into his every thought he had; his soul had ached for her, cried out in pained despair to be connected with her.

He had nearly given in, too, had almost taken her, body and soul, if not for the stubborn refusal that had echoed, sudden and unwelcome but correct, in the back of his mind: no, no, no, she wasn’t his to have.

She was a human, belonged to the _other_ Sans… didn’t want _him_.

He had reluctantly detached himself, standing across the small shack to ask his questions about Frisk’s resets (he hadn’t trusted himself to stand any closer; he had barely been able to keep his hands from shaking even at the distance he had put between them… _stars_ , how he had wanted her), but hadn’t even listened to her answers, mind whirling into a chaotic mess of never before considered subjects against his will and better judgment.

Why would a beautiful human, who could have any of her kind, want a monster, especially a skeleton?

Was she some sort of freak… or was she really just that special?

How long had it taken her to want the other Sans back?

Could she come to want _him_ one day?

Did she know that their souls were resonating, desperate to be together?

Could she feel it too?

Could humans tell when they had met their match?

Did she even know about soul bonds?

Had she thought of him, an almost identical copy of his other self, the same way she had her little _boyfriend_?

Her lips looked so soft… tasted so good, in the false memories… how would they feel around his cock?

She had let his other self feel her up in a field… was she that amiable to intimacy?

Did she want it that bad?

Was she a good fuck? Sans had been willing to bet every gold he had that she was, with her attitude and her passion and her soft, delicious looking body (he had nearly drooled, already able to imagine his bones pressed against her bare skin, her legs wrapped around his thrusting hips…).

Did he have a chance with her? He had hurt her, often and badly, and she claimed to hate him, for good reason… he hadn’t known she was to be _his_ , though, had only been doing his duty; perhaps she would understand.

Had the other Sans bonded with her yet? It was hard to tell, with how similar his magic was to his counterpart’s.

Frisk’s soul hadn’t felt like it had been claimed, though, and she hadn’t had any jewelry that radiated magic…

…but that didn’t mean his other self hadn’t screwed her, hadn’t marked her physically.

Sans hadn’t liked that thought at all, something that felt like acid starting to flow through his magic; his eyesight had turned red, his claws had lengthened, and his gaze, hard and angry and _jealous_ , had pinned Frisk from across the room, his bones shaking in their sockets.

Had that piece of shit fucked her?

Had he taken what was _his_?!

Sans hadn’t been able to tell, from where the memory had ended, hadn’t known if they had kept going, but the possibility, the _probability_ (what a little _slut_ … spreading her legs for any monster that looked her way… didn’t she know that _he_ was the only one allowed to have her?), had had him seething, vitriol oozing from his soul and setting his bones on fire.

He would rip that rat bastard limb from _fucking **limb**_ for daring to even _think_ of touching her.

The venom of his thoughts had shocked even him, had coursed a flame of despairing longing and vengeful murder through him despite his mind’s insistence that it shouldn’t matter to him (what did he care if Frisk had taken a lover? He had had many over his lifetime… and it wasn’t like he would ever get to be with her), and he had hurried from the shed early that night, his bones aching in his fuming rage and his desperate desire to claim her as he had stalked among the twilight darkened trees of the forest outside Snowdin.

He hadn’t understood, and it had pissed him the _fuck_ off.

He had never been a covetous monster; he had never really had anything to be possessive _of_ , everything he had ever earned going towards the raising and support of the infant brother Gaster had left him with when he… fell.

But thinking of the human, _his human_ (could he call her his? She was there, trapped with him, far away from her pathetic loser of a _lover…_ it seemed reason enough to claim her), with that asswipe’s hands all over her, imagining her clinging to him, naked, begging for his cock… picturing her arching her back, moaning and undulating, while his counterpart fucked her…

Envisioning the other Sans marking her, claiming her…

 _Taking_ Frisk from him…

Sans had methodically demolished an acre of forest that night, his invidious wrath too potent to keep inside; the fires he left burning in his wake had decimated another mile of trees, surely destroying homes and possibly even killing a few monsters.

He hadn’t been able bring himself to care, consumed with the desired but firmly denied need to flash back to the shed, get his hands on the girl, and sink his cock into her.

During the course of the night, in between blasting trees to shreds and punching boulders, he had managed to convince himself that he had been confused by the memories again, that he had thought that he had found his mate because he was lonely, that the raging, insatiable desire for Frisk was just because he hadn’t had sex in a while, as he had been almost entirely focused on her for the past month.

He had convinced himself that he was just fooling himself, hopeful of finding an end to his eternal loneliness… she wasn’t his _anything_ , and never would be.

He had had no idea if a monster even _could_ bond with a human; they were completely different species, for fuck’s suck, their souls so different they _must_ be incompatible.

Sans, in his firm denial, had figured that his delusion could be cured by getting his rocks off, resolutely ignoring the niggling sense of distaste he had felt at the thought of being with anyone but Frisk, but hadn’t been able to find a female to fuck that night, as it had been pretty late when he had finally calmed down.

As a momentary alternative, he had tried jerking himself off once he was in his room, hopeful of at least a little relief (his magic had refused to dissipate ever since he had begun his destructive pastime earlier that night, reacting even more unstably now that he was closer to the girl, and he had been sporting a boner for _hours_ ), but had been stymied again when the only thought he could pleasure himself to was of _her_ , how she had felt beneath him and how breathy and soft her voice had been and how fucking _perfect_ her tight little cunt would feel around his cock.

He hadn’t been able to spite himself into stopping once he discovered that, disregarding the insistence that he shouldn’t be doing what he was (it wouldn’t stop his obsession, wouldn’t help him stop wanting to _fuck a human_ , he had told himself, even as he had stroked his hand along his dick more firmly), but had only ended up even more frustrated when he had had one of the best orgasms of his life while getting off to images of fucking Frisk senseless; Paps had shouted at him to shut up through the wall, he had been moaning so loudly.

Sans had pretended to be sick that next day, skiving off of work to pace nervously around his room, considering what to do and how to handle the ache in his chest that had demanded he go back to her, that he touch her again, that he ravage her body and lay his claim on her flesh.

 _Stars_ , he had wanted to.

He had decided, after hours of confused considerations and three holes punched in the wall next to his desk and more masturbation than he was proud to admit to (his fucking dick had refused to stay dissipated, and had only gone away if he sated his deep seated lust by thinking of Frisk laid out on his bed, leaking the large amounts of magic he had jerked out of himself that day from every hole she had), that he had _desperately_ needed to get laid, first and foremost.

After that, he had assured himself, he would be fine; after that, he could go back to Frisk with a clear head, no longer distracted by what, surely, the other Sans had forced on him through the memories.

It should be impossible, after all, for two monsters to soul bond with the same mate, _if_ a monster could bond to a human at all (the circumstance seemed too ironic and too much like wishful thinking for his liking or suspicious distrust)… the odds in favor of it were astronomical.

He had clearly just been overstressed and sleep deprived and starved for sex, seeing what he had wanted to where nothing existed; he had become more sure of himself the longer that he had thought of his excuses, already considering who he would visit that evening to slake his desperate need.

What had followed his stubborn denials, his sightless begrudgery, though, had been one of the most unsatisfying and aggravating nights of his life.

Sans had shouldered his way into Grillby’s the second that Papyrus had gone on his evening patrol, waved a hand shortly to the flaming bartender (the purple fire elemental had grinned back at him sharply), and had beckoned to the female nearest to the door; they all knew his temperament and his tastes, having been the objects of his lusts more than once over the years, and the rabbit girl, sloppily drunk and partially slumped over the table of her booth, had hurried excitedly to answer his call, stumbling out the door in his wake.

He had been in no mood for conscientiousness or tact, in the depths of his hunger and burning need to dismiss his desire for the girl (she had occupied his mind all damn day, burning through his magic like cleansing fire, and he had needed her _out_ of his head); he had dragged the young, pretty monster behind the building, shoved her against the back wall beside one of the trashcans, and had forced his hand under the waistband of her short skirt, determinedly ignoring the flavor of distaste in his mouth and the annoying, pitchy keens that she had moaned against his neck.

He had _hated_ the sounds she made... he had caught himself thinking that she sounded nothing like Frisk, not soft or pleasant or sexy in the way _she_ was so effortlessly; he hadn’t understood, having always enjoyed himself with this female before (she had been one of his favorites, extremely submissive and willing to try anything), and had shrugged all thoughts of the human away forcibly, clutching at the rabbit girl’s breast and thrusting two fingers into her.

He had felt no desire for her even as he had fingered her into readiness for him, though, had begun to feel ill just from touching her (she had felt nothing like _her_ , the brush of fur and lustful wetness incomparable to the passionate heat of the girl’s soft, silken skin); she had stroked him in all the right ways, already knowledgeable in where his bones were most sensitive and what turned him on, but nothing she had done had caught his interest, infuriatingly bland and tedious in comparison to _her._

He had gotten very angry _very_ quickly, his complete lack of success at distracting his unbearable need with a very eager partner enraging him (her salacious begging for him had actually begun to annoy him, where it had once been incredibly sexy); he had spun her around impatiently, slammed her face first into the wall, and lifted her skirt over her quivering tail, her lack of panties doing nothing but reminding him of the ones he had bought for Frisk.

Even if she had no longer turned him on, even if she had lost his interest, he could still fuck her and get rid of the ache of _longing_ in his soul that had demanded he find the one that called to him and join with her instead.

And then Sans had embarrassed himself.

His magic had rebuffed him, his soul refusing to respond to his demanding summon; he hadn’t been able to call forth so much as a spark to his fingertips, much less anything that would help him drown his hunger in the trembling female monster bent over in front of him, her legs spread for him.

He had never been so confused or so aggravated in his life, glaring down at the parted zipper of his shorts in humiliated chagrin; he had flashed away the second he redid his pants, appearing, far across the Underground, in the middle of Muffet’s lair, his hard, desperate eyes scanning the webs strung decoratively on the walls of the spider harem.

The spider pimp’s whores were pricey, their mistress greedy and hungry for every drop of gold she could squeeze out of her patrons (he didn’t like to drop that much money on a lay often, almost always having to dip into his savings to afford the girls there), but they had never failed to get him off, and he had _needed_ it, by then, thoughts of _her_ consuming his mind again and tempting him with impossible fantasies.

He had felt Frisk’s skin under his hands, felt the warmth of her breath on his vertebrae and tasted the sweetness of her tongue against his; she had moaned for him, in the layered memories, whimpered his name and run shy fingers over the curve of his pelvis and licked the dangerously sharp tip of one of his canines.

Sans had almost teleported to her immediately, drool dripping from his fangs rapturously, before he had shaken himself free of the plaguing memories, stalked to the nearest free girl, and had snarled at her to service him, flopping onto one of the plush couches that lined the small, rounded caves surrounding the main floor of the whore house.

He had barely been able to concentrate on the sinuous, tantalizing undulations of the spider monster in his lap, though, anxious to finally have the haze of lust that was overpowering his senses pass.

He had ground his hips against her as she rubbed herself against him, impatient to just _get to the point_ , but when the attractive female had lowered herself to her knees and made to unzip his shorts, glancing up at him from beneath her long, multiple lashes (he had remained unimpressed, her seductions falling short of his interest), he, _again_ , had been unable to summon his magic, his soul clenching almost angrily in his rib cage every time he had tried.

He had been ready to commit murder by that point, pent up and furious and wasting the night away with his trackless, useless pastime; he had thrown his payment in the confused spider’s face before flashing away again, reappearing in front of the shack that sheltered the girl.

Sans had been absolutely _done_ , shoving his way into the shed and yanking open the cage door and stomping across the enclosure to where Frisk had cowered in the corner, ready to beat her within an inch of her life; surely, she had cast some sort of spell on him, had taken her revenge on him and made his life unbearable, had made him think he _wanted her_ , above all others.

He had dragged her up from the ground by the arm, fully intending to put the sobbing, quailing girl through just as much pain as he had been in (he must have looked terrifying to her, in his hapless rage… he had only seen her that frightened once or twice before) …

But the moment he had touched her, had gotten close enough to get a nose full of her scent, had grazed her skin with the side of his thumb, his soul had calmed, the crazed hunger he had been possessed by all night and day fading into peace, still present but lessened to a manageable degree.

He had wanted nothing more, in his reduced wrath, than to soothe the dread in her eyes, to hold her to him and press his face into her hair, against her ear, and tell her how sorry he was for making her fear him, for probably bruising her arm in his thoughtlessness, but had not, instead dropping her arm and stepping away from her with lowered, shuttered sockets.

The abrupt softening of his ire had confused him even more than the ceaseless lust had, throwing his mind into chaos (how had she done that to him? What power had she wielded that had bent him to her whim so easily?); he hadn’t understood his fluctuating tempers, the way just being in her presence had made him feel more at peace than he ever had in his centuries of living, or why, through all the effort he had made that night, his magic had reacted only to _her_.

Sans had felt it arching towards her through his bones the second he approached her, his soul leaping at the chance to join hers in completion; for the first time in that miserable, humiliating evening, he had felt the stirring of arousal, brought on by the mere contact of his hand to her arm.

His denials refused to let him believe his own soul, rejecting the more and more pressing intuition that she was his match; he had not stayed long that evening, though his magic had cried out in despair at his departure.

He had had more pressing matters, not the last of which had been throbbing through his pelvis insistently (how she had held more sex appeal to him than _two_ easy sluts he simply had not been able to fathom); he had needed answers, questions that had nothing to do with his original capture of her pressing at his mind, and had teleported himself into the library in Asgore’s castle, stalking up and down the darkened aisles in search of his quarry.

There had to have been something about human/monster relations, from the time before the barrier; he couldn’t have asked any of the monsters that had been alive before their exile, they would have become suspicious (excepting, perhaps, Gerson, though the old fossil had hated him for many years after Sans had stuck one too many “Kick Me” signs to his shell).

He had spent every hour until it was time for his sentry shift reading through the pile of books he had pulled haphazardly from the shelves, and had even stolen a particularly helpful one to take with him to work, engrossed, fascinated, and stricken by what he had discovered.

Long before the war between monster and humankind, they had lived peacefully together for many thousands of years, and had not only cooperated as societies, but had interbred as well, producing incredibly powerful, magic wielding human/monster hybrids.

The book he had stolen, flaking and so old that he was amazed it hadn’t turned to dust itself (he wouldn’t have found it had it not been for a flash of memory from the other Sans; his counterpart had searched out this subject as well, with the help of a much kinder and more benevolent King Asgore, and had found all his answers within it), had contained many long hidden secrets of the bonding process between monsters and humans, written in a time when such things had been extremely common.

Bonding with humans was a complicated process, made more difficult by the fact that most humans were not intimately familiar with their own souls (most went their entire lives unaware of their presence); without viewing their soul directly, or being so close to their bodies that its power could be felt through their skin, a monster would never even be aware that they had found their match in a human.

Once that match had been found, however, the bonding process was fairly similar; mating marks could be exchanged, courtship rituals completed, and soul bonding achieved, alongside a human tradition called “marriage” that involved the trading of verbal vows, the signing of papers, and the eating of cake (seemed like a stupid and wasteful process, at least to him).

The book had also discussed the science behind copulation between monsters and humans, though it had clearly been outdated and not fully informed on how the human reproductive cycle worked (he knew more just from Frisk’s explanation alone); as a human’s magic was so concentrated in their souls, not spread throughout their bodies and able to be molded like a monster’s, reproduction was tricky and potentially fatal for the human, overloads of magic deadly to their saturated souls.

Unlike monsters, who usually had to store magic for over twenty years to have enough at once to create new life, a human required many smaller doses over a long period of time (though not as long as a monster’s cycle, usually only two to three years required), slowly being absorbed into their souls so that a child could be created; the other Sans had been doing research on the subject in conjunction with the other world’s Alphys, hopeful of one day having children with Frisk himself… he had almost set the book on fire when he had seen that memory, jealousy overtaking his mind.

His own behavior had been explained through a common book he had never bothered to read, even though it had technically been required reading in school, titled “Soulmating for Dummies”.

Sans had not considered it a pressing matter at the time, more consumed with trying to keep his father satisfied with his grades so that his mother wouldn’t suffer any worse than she already had been, but as he had thumbed through it in the dark halls of the castle library, settled on the cold tile floor and so tired he had barely been able to stay awake, he had come to the realization that he could have used the information _weeks_ ago.

The signs had all been there.

The pull he had felt towards her, the way she had held his gaze, how he had never felt complete when not in her presence… these had only been accentuated by the realization of the resonance they shared, his desire for her, his need to be near her, and the true depths of emotion he could feel for her.

Not to mention how protective and fiercely envious he had become; it would have been hilarious to see a monster jealous of itself, had it been anyone else, but he found no humor in the situation, only territorial fury.

Now that Sans’s soul had recognized her as its other half, he would be able to have no other, take no lovers besides her, until the day that she died; he had expected to find this bitter news, just another fallacy forced on him against his will, but he had, instead, found himself strangely content.

What had once been an unsavory, contemptable match in his mind had become truth, baring the weakness of his arguments and the blindness of his stigma for what it truly had been; he had been repeating to himself the things he had been told she was, not how he truly saw her.

There was no ugliness or filth in her, no cruelty or spite, like they had been taught to expect of humans (his mother had never approved of that summary, believing that a person was what they made of themselves, not what other people described them as); she was beautiful, and kind, and so very determined, strong and feisty and incredibly, unbelievably passionate.

The memories spoke of her humor, of how intelligent she was and how protective of her family and friends she could be… her soul beat with the strength of her love, its far reaching effects felt in shock waves throughout her entire life.

And as Sans had sat, in the shuttered darkness of his room and clutching those tattered old books to his chest, he had found that he had wanted to be part of that love.

It had taken two days to accept it, after the night he had spent attempting to disown his soulmate, each word he read from the books whittling away at his dogged egotism.

Each day he had knocked down more of his stubbornly erected walls with written truths from a time long passed, each night bathing in the potential glory of what he could have if he only gave up his pride and accepted his fate.

Two days, and the longing, the lust, the desire for completion, had finally been enough to admit defeat; he had thought himself strong, above attachment to a disgusting human (how had he ever thought of her that way? He didn’t know…), better than the pull of instinct and emotion and fate.

He had fallen, accepting into his soul, slowly, the inevitability that he was to be mated to the fragile creature he had been keeping prisoner in his shed; he had made his decision, alone in the night for, what he had hoped, had been one of the final times of his life.

It hadn’t mattered that she had been the other Sans’s lover first (which she had to have been; his counterpart would have had to be a complete imbecile to pass up on such a gorgeous piece of ass, even if he _despised_ knowing that he had had her first), not when she was there, with him, in _his_ hands.

He had wanted her to be _his_ , in his life and by his side and in his bed, and he had intended to keep her there.

Sans hadn’t cared about the looks he got from the gossiping bears in the village when he had practically sauntered through town the next morning, happier than he had been in as long as he had been able to remember; the jovial but dismissive “fuck-off’s” he had greeted their inquisitive stares with had quickly discouraged them from any other interactions.

He hadn’t given half a fuck about the eyebrow raise that the store owner had given him when he had gone to buy the collar and chain his licentious, lustful mind had insisted that he had needed for _his_ human (yes… his human… it had sounded good, _felt_ good); she had been warned to keep her mouth shut about the purchase duly (“you say one fuckin’ word and i’ll rip your spine out through your cock suckin’ mouth”).

He had wanted to go to Frisk right after he had bought it, to show her the way he loved his females as soon as possible (he had had a feeling she would need to acclimate to his particular brand of pleasure, and the sooner the better), but it had been broad daylight… he couldn’t have had Papyrus getting suspicious of his skulking and finding her.

It wasn’t the first time he had imagined killing his bastard of a brother, but it _was_ the most graphic and most unapologetic of his daydreams, just the thought of the other skeleton laying hands on her driving him into a consuming rage.

Since he hadn’t been able to go to her then, he had gone, reluctantly, to his lookout station in Waterfall, twitchy with desire and his newfound happiness and the need to be close to _her_ , winding the length of the chain he had bought around and around his fingers contemplatively.

Sans had spent the day planning and plotting and scheming, laying out the future for himself and his soon to be mate as far as he had been able to see ahead; he had a large amount of money stored away, enough to support himself and her for more than her entire life (he had shied away from the inevitability of her short life, then, not wishing to confront that particular hurdle then), and, technically, still owned a house out past Hotland, the home he had grown up in.

He hadn’t wanted to return there, not even the century that had passed enough time to cleanse it of its shadows, but it would be a safer place for her than the frigid, harsh shed she had been forced to take residence in for the last month.

It would take time to clean up, abandoned as it had been for so long, but once he had made it habitable, he had planned to take her there, far from prying eyes and interfering brothers and the memory of how cruel he had been to her (he had almost killed her… almost beaten her to death more than once… what the hell had been _wrong_ with him).

There, he had planned to make it all up to her, to show her that, though he was rough and sharp and temperamental, at times demanding and very often more stubborn and harsh than he should be, that he was willing to try to be more, for _her_ ; he had wanted, _desperately_ , for her to look at him like she looked at his doppelganger in the memories, and had planned to earn that from her, in time.

He had planned to work hard, to do his very best to be what she deserved, and to show her that he was just as good as her last skeleton lover (he had nearly broken the chain in his grasp as he had thought that, gritting his teeth and growling animalistically and scaring a passing child).

Theirs would be an unusual courtship, once he had earned her mark and given her his, as he intended to bond with her without going through all the steps, but that was hardly his fault; he couldn’t afford to take her through all the customary mating rituals (she would be in danger if he took her to the crystal caves to make their bonding wish on the false stars, Papyrus would murder her if he took her to meet his last remaining family, and he certainly wasn’t about to let Asgore supervise their souls resonating), and so he had sworn to give her time, to give her soul room to get used to his, before he claimed her.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t let her know how much he wanted her, though… it didn’t mean he couldn’t show her how he liked it, how he intended to bring her mind blowing pleasure (he had grinned so widely and sharply that his jaw had ached, adjusting his seat on his stool as his magic had surged excitedly though his body).

Night had not come quickly enough.

Sans had barely been able to keep from pouncing on her when he finally let himself into her cage that night, his soul soaring at being close to her again, but he had forced himself to be patient, to draw it out as long as possible; she would definitely not be prepared for him to suddenly change tactics from her torturer to her suitor, would be understandably disconcerted and resistant, and so he had hidden his surging happiness and urgent need to finally see her body for himself.

He had shown her the spiked collar he had bought her that morning, had insisted that she wear it because he no longer believed she couldn’t escape with her soul’s powers (he had known better, but any excuse to get it on her had been fine with him; he had wanted it almost as badly as he had wanted to see what the panties he had bought her looked like against her skin), and had approached the wary and defiant girl adamantly.

She had fought him, unsurprisingly, unexpectedly agile even in her weakened state (he had cursed at himself, inwardly, seeing how thin she had grown; he had reminded himself to feed her more often, he frequently forgot that she needed more food than he did), and in their struggle for dominance, which he had won as usual, he had, accidentally/on purpose curled his hand into the collar of her dress and ripped it, rending the material to just below the lower curves of her bra covered breasts.

He had been severely disappointed that she wore a bra, but the movement had not been to ogle at her breasts; he had wanted to see if the other Sans had marked her, desperate for confirmation but too impatient, as always, to wait, and had quickly inspected her bared shoulders and neck before she had, with a horrified gasp, clasped the material shut again with trembling hands, flushed a bright red that, indeed, did carry to her breasts.

Sans had been pleased beyond reason to see the absence of a mating mark on her neck and shoulders, easily clipping the collar around her neck since her hands had been otherwise occupied, but the confirmation had only risen more questions; how had his other self managed to fuck her without marking her?

It took an extreme amount of self control to resist placing a physical mark when having sex with your mate for the first time, if a marking gift hadn’t already been given… he didn’t know how he had done it, but the satisfaction of knowing he would be able to claim Frisk unimpeded had been stained with doubt and deprecation, after that.

He had barely been able to enjoy to sight of the spiked leather round her throat, striking against her skin and such an immense turn on that he hadn’t been able to keep his hands to himself, dragging her closer with the attached chain and running a forefinger up her neck delicately, muttering to her that there would be no escaping him now.

Even his satisfaction over his day of planning and beginning his tactical advances had brought no joy to him, in the aftermath of the example the other Sans had left behind (had he really been _that_ good?).

The memories hadn’t helped him, only boasting of all the ways the other skeleton monster had touched and tasted and been intimate with _his_ human; he saw no visions of them having sex, which he had silently thanked the stars for, but they had done enough together for him to have a permanent audio loop of her pleasure filled moans burned into the inside of his skull.

Where he had before been a minor annoyance, his counterpart had begun to become a frequent and hated roadblock in his path, each new memory of his hands on Frisk’s body breaking his confidence and temper a little more.

Sans had started getting ticked off every time she had talked about his other self; she had never mentioned that they had fucked (maybe that should have been a clue to her innocence…), only talked about him in the context of a friend, but he had heard the adoration for him in her voice, _knew_ that she had been riding his dick, and it had really started getting on his nerves.

He had stopped asking about _him_ , covetously only wanted her to think and talk about _him_ like that, but the fucker always managed to come up in conversation; it drove him up the fucking wall, and more often than not he would end up hurting her in his misplaced need to smash the other skeleton into dust for even _thinking_ about touching her, hours of every damn day dedicated to calming himself from his next bout of jealous rage.

He had gone so crazy with envy and instinctive possession one night that he had almost fucked her against a wall, almost _marked_ her, driven mad with the need to prove his ownership of her when she had admitted to _loving_ the other Sans.

He had managed to restrain himself that night, had let her go and taken his rage out on the trees in the woods _again_ , razing fields and glens with blistering lasers and bursts of fire; he had fisted his cock over and over, once he had slammed his way into his room (thank the _stars_ that Papyrus had been out that night), promises of retribution and thoughts of fucking the human into submission bringing him to multiple orgasms, until he had passed out in his own filth, still unable to calm himself after hours of destruction and lustful thrusting into his own hand.

He… hadn’t done as well tonight.

The remembrance of her tears, her cries for mercy and her shame, of the blood that had dripped from between her legs to mix with his cum, spilt by his unnecessarily rough and unthinking rutting, echoed numbly in his mind, and Sans, disgusted with himself, clenched his sockets shut, staggering backwards to slump against the wall behind himself torpidly.

This wasn’t what he had wanted.

He had ruined it, had ruined _her_ ; he had gotten so fucking _angry_ , so fucking jealous and hurt when she rejected him and refused to give him a chance (which she had a right to; she barely knew him, he had come on too strong and asked too soon) …

But that was no excuse for what he had done to her.

If he had stuck to his plan, had kept his cool one _fucking_ time (Papyrus was right, he was too impulsive), he could have made it through a night without hurting her, without making her hate him more than she already did; he hadn’t gone in tonight to fuck her, after all.

He had actually thought of some important questions, had remembered something strange but relevant (Gaster had a way of slipping his mind like that), and, though always excited to see her lately, his soul swelling happily in the presence of his mate, he had been very eager to go out to the shed that evening, sure he had found the answer behind her manifestation in this changed world. 

But then she had looked at him with _that_ expression, contentious and sarcastic, had cursed and snapped at him, ready to fight and refusing to cooperate, and he had succumbed to her little game, knowing she had no idea what she did to him when she was like that but loving it all the same.

She turned him on so fucking much when she was being a bitch, and he got off so damn _good_ imagining shutting her up with his cock.

He had gone too far, though, when she started bringing _him_ up again; she had hit him where it hurt most, citing how much more she liked his counterpart and how little she thought of him, and he… he had snapped, tired of being second best, over and over, to the girl that consumed his mind and his body and his soul every second of the damn day.

He fucking hated it when he lost it and hurt her, when there was fear instead of fire in her eyes, but he hadn’t had the presence of mind to care when he was holding her to the floor and watching her choke on her breath; he had needed to punish her, had to show her who owned her, to make her understand.

No, he hadn’t cared, lost to his jealous greed and insatiable appetite for her; he had made another allowance, intended to finally get some intimacy from her, to make her pay for teasing him like she did, to finally feel her mouth on his dick (his bones throbbed, remembering the feeling of her skin still) …

Then she had begged him.

She had a penchant for doing that, a talent with feigning innocence and looking like a lost puppy, and even before he had known she was fated to be his, meant to be his soulmate, her pleas for whatever the hell she wanted that day had made his magic flow quicker through him, mind automatically imagining her begging for him to fuck her harder, to give her more of his cock.

It was sexy as fuck, and he was already a sucker for her anyway, so it made the occurrences doubly fatal to his control.

She had seemed to catch on to what he was thinking when she did it, and had stopped for awhile, after she had asked him for a new pair of panties (he had gone all the way to Hotland to buy them for her, salivating over the image of the pretty lace lingerie clinging to her ass), but she had pulled out all the stops tonight, begging for him to spare her from licking his dick (he was nearly rabid to get her mouth on him, sure she would be a cock sucking champ), and after she had, he had been struck dumb by the raging fire of his desire.

Every mating instinct in his body had risen and demanded he take her, right there on the floor; every misplaced memory of touching her, tasting her, feeling her pressed against his bones, had fought their way to the surface, reminding him, across space and time, of how _delicious_ she smelled, how soft her skin was, and how fucking **_good_ ** she felt against him 

He had needed it, _needed her_ … and he hadn’t resisted, his control, razor thin as always, fading into the ether without a second thought.

He had only lasted ten days, after discovering their connection… but had kept himself from taking what he wanted for what felt like infinitely _longer_ (knowing damn well that he hadn’t waited as long as his other self had meant nothing to the need pushing at his mind every waking moment).

Every single moment that had passed in the other Sans’s memory had urged him on, assuring him of his right to claim her…

Every day of every year his other self had spent protecting and loving her had entreated him, begging to finally be assuaged in the curve of her lips and the swell of her breasts and the cradle of her thighs.

He hadn’t defied the clamor of his soul, its demand to mate her, _at last_ , louder even than the rush of his magic through his head and the uproar of the endless memories and the pitiful reminder that he had a _plan_ , drowning out the cry of the approaching blizzard.

But even as he had growled his desire for her into the night, had told her all that he wished to do to her as he pressed her to the floor beneath his body, had smelled and tasted and touched what he had _craved_ to have for _years_ (no… no, it had only been a few weeks…), he had known it wasn’t what he had wanted, what he had planned for them both.

He had wanted to treat her right, had wanted to get her to want it too, had planned for a bed for her and a night of pleasure and the best promise of devotion he could make (he’d been practicing, and thought that it wasn’t half bad, for someone that wasn’t very good with words).

Yet he had lost control, so eager to be with her (he had been coming undone at the seams, torn to pieces over her and everything she was) and confusing the other Sans’s years of waiting with his meager month and so provoked with lust and jealousy and his voracious longing to have her _want him too_ …

He had forced her to accept him, in his anger and possessiveness and heartache, had _raped_ her, over and over, and had marked her against her will, laid his claim on her body without her permission or reciprocation.

It both sickened him and turned him on when he already found himself wanting more, already imagining having her again.

He had taken so much tonight, done so much _damage_ … she would never want him now, not when he had torn everything she had been saving away from her, defiling it and her and her tender, hopeful wishes without care.

He should have stopped, like he had intended to, after he had eaten her out (stars, he could still taste her pussy in his mouth, she was so fucking good…); she had been so tight that he hadn’t been able to fit his tongue into her, something that had stunned him.

Surely, if she had been fucking that son of a bitch as much as he figured she must have (he had seen exactly how badly his counterpart wanted her, over and over, had _known_ , for certain, that they had had sex), he would have been able to fit inside.

As soon as he had commented on it, though, joking to himself that she felt like a virgin, he had been hit with a memory so strong and vivid he had nearly blacked out; the other Sans, sitting on the edge of his bed, had held a metallic piece of stone in his hands, stroking his thumbs along its surface almost lovingly.

He had imagined the stone, apparently a chunk of space rock that he had kept for an incredibly long time, carved into a bracelet, hanging from Frisk’s wrist and glowing with his soul’s magic; he had sworn to himself, even as consumed as he was with desire for the girl, that he would not sleep with her until she was safe, refusing to ever hurt her again (there had been immense pain, in that oath, stemming from what he did not know).

He had sworn it on his mother’s dust, a promise that was not to be taken lightly.

Sans had burst from the memory nearly breathless with shock, mortification and regret shaking his soul; if he had sworn he wouldn’t fuck her on his mother’s remains, then he never had, had never been with her.

She had been a virgin the whole damn time, and he had told himself it was okay to assault her like he had because she wasn’t innocent, that she deserved it after whoring herself out like she had to a lesser version of himself.

That should have been the end of it.

He should have done as he had intended to, to leave her be and escape into the night to calm himself and _not go too far_ , but she… no.

He couldn’t blame her.

He had been the one to make the decision to snap, to take the agony of her rejection and hurt her even worse than she ever had meant to harm him.

He deserved all of her animosity, the hatred and fear that had been in her eyes as he had run away like the scared child he had been, once, fearing his father’s wrath after failing another science test.

Sans, choking back another miserable sob, buried his face in his hands one last time, pressing his palms into his aching eye sockets.

What was he going to do?

He had no idea, and that terrified him.

Sighing and weary and feeling like the scum that he truly was, Sans, dropping his hands to his sides, pushed himself away from the wall and moved to refold the towel he had crumpled, but had glanced, in passing, at an odd movement in the mirror.

When he did, he nearly jumped through the ceiling in shock.

Staring back at him, through the mirror, was a not him, a glowering skeleton monster with blue magic sparking furiously in his narrowed sockets and a gold heart locket strung around his neck; the skeleton sneered at him hatefully, flat teeth bared in a grimace of utter loathing.

“hello, me,” the other Sans snarled, tone low but full of the promise of murder; frost crept up the edges of the mirror, a strange magic crackling in the air of the small bathroom. “how… ice of you to finally notice you had company.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo? What didja think <3 We gonna have fun next chapter or what? Let me know what you thought, here or on Tumblr, and thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Oh, also! A perfectly lovely person on Tumblr is drawing a comic for this story! How exciting is that?! They are @binaryowl on Tumblr, and the blog that'll have the comic and other things is http://soulssquared.tumblr.com/
> 
> Nothing up yet, but be patient, it's gonna be awesome! The artist is fantastic <3
> 
> Fell's Fuck Counter: 214


	8. Shatter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had long thought of Frisk’s other lover as weak, inconsequential and pathetic because of his pacifistic ways; he had always imagined it would be an easy matter to defeat him, if he were ever to face him, aware of the strength of his own LV, accumulated over a century of slaughter and brutality.
> 
> The power that was crushing him into the wall, the conscienceless fury in his counterpart’s sockets, however, told a different story entirely; he didn’t lack the ability to wield his magic, he merely chose not to, a strength so intimidating and vast behind it that it couldn’t even be contained by a separate universe.
> 
> He couldn’t see the other Sans’s LV… but he had a feeling it was higher than even his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *bows in humility* You have all been so patient with me, thank you for waiting for my update. I'm so sorry it took so long, I can only plead insanity and illness. I have a lot of plans for extra content in the coming weeks, both to do with Dalliance as well as other things (details on my Tumblr, I won't waste your time here), but here is what you've all been waiting for... the Sans smashathon! :D And other things lol
> 
> Warnings include dirty thoughts, egregious violence against skeletons that totally deserve it, a metric shitton of cursing, and an overdose of badass Blue. All under 18, please leave out the back. No room in the inn.
> 
> New art links!  
> http://thebananafrappe.tumblr.com/post/147567295468  
> http://soulssquared.tumblr.com/post/147061989300  
> http://thebananafrappe.tumblr.com/post/146767945463  
> http://thebananafrappe.tumblr.com/post/146320567448  
> http://binaryowl.tumblr.com/post/146088641330
> 
> And of course, my Tumblr, for story updates, sneak peeks, art, and other shenanigans!  
> http://thebananafrappe.tumblr.com/

* * *

What the actual fuck.

Sans blinked, unable to comprehend the sight before him even as flakes of frost broke away from the mirror, floating eerily on the still, electrically charged air.

The other skeleton, only scowling more deeply as the heavy silence stretched, was an almost complete reflection of himself but for a few details; Sans was taller than his counterpart by nearly half a foot, was notably sharper and more scarred in several places, obviously had different elemental magic, and, much to his own satisfaction, looked vastly more intimidating…

Was that why his hands were shaking?

Sans, squinting at his not-reflection, stilled himself to resist the instinctual step back he wanted to take, holding his gaze but doubting, not for the first time, the stability of his sanity (he had certainly seen and done enough in his life to warrant lunacy).

He must have finally lost his mind, driven out of it by his betrayal and volatility tonight.

There was no way that the other Sans could be here, staring back at him through the reflective glass; time and space didn’t work like this, so easily breached by wont and whim.

It was impossible.

“this ain’t happenin’. i’m just hallucinatin’…” he muttered to himself, shaking his head and rubbing his knuckles into his sleep deprived and sunken sockets, but the apparition didn’t dissipate with his declaration, instead smirking cruelly back at him, the manifestation of his magic flaring and the sharp tips of icicles forming along the bottom of the cabinet the mirror hung from.

“why don’t we just test that theory, hmm?” the fuming reflection mused dourly, his teeth grinding together in his anger, and extended a hand from his side into view, a film of undulating blue magic rising from his bones to coat his phalanges.

Sans only had a split second to realize what he was doing, to recognize one of his own attacks (oh… oh _fuck_ ), before his doppelganger had shoved his hand straight out in front of himself, pure, murderous vehemence in his sparking gaze.

Sans’s back hit the wall behind him with a jarring slam, his bones rattling in their sockets and his vision swimming with blackness as the back of his skull pressed into the wallpaper, fractures spreading from the new dent his cranium had made.

He attempted to pull himself away from the cracked plaster, calling to his magic to aid him in this fight, but could do no more than strain, held immobile by the raw power of the other skeleton.

For the first time since he had walked into the unknown with his baby brother held in his arms, Sans felt true, soul-deep fear, cloying terror pushing at his thoughts and fuzzing his mind into inactivity; all thoughts of having lost his mind fled, the certainty of the magic pressing him into his bathroom wall all too real.

He had long thought of Frisk’s other lover as weak, inconsequential and pathetic because of his pacifistic ways; he had always imagined it would be an easy matter to defeat him, if he were ever to face him, aware of the strength of his own LV, accumulated over a century of slaughter and brutality.

The power that was crushing him into the wall, the conscienceless fury in his counterpart’s sockets, however, told a different story entirely; he didn’t lack the ability to wield his magic, he merely chose _not_ to, a strength so intimidating and vast behind it that it couldn’t even be contained by a separate universe.

He couldn’t see the other Sans’s LV… but he had a feeling it was higher than even his own.

Sans, trembling against his will with his mounting dread and agitation, attempted to speak, to tell the other skeleton monster to _fuck off_ and let him go (using bravado to hide his fear seemed only fitting), but, in the mirror, his doppelganger snarled, clenching his extended phalanges into clawed talons.

The force holding him immobile tightened at the gesture, grinding his bones together and squeezing his soul (it throbbed plaintively, protesting more pain than he was already suffering and waving a haze of black around the edge of his vision), and despite how hard he tried to hold it in, desperate not to show weakness to his enemy, Sans let out a grunt of pain, his sockets scrunching and a bead of sweat slipping from his temple to streak down his tightened jaw.

The other Sans chuckled ominously at that, though no humor showed on his darkened face; his magic flickered sinisterly, throwing threatening shadows over the lines of resentment and odium dug into his skull.

“hurts, doesn’t it, being held down and overpowered… having all your control taken from you…” he muttered nastily, shoving his palm forward and slamming Sans against the wall again, and the captured skeleton, wincing at the escalating pain, glared hatefully at his counterpart, straining against his bonds powerlessly.

The significance of the other skeleton’s monologue hadn’t escaped him; somehow, the reflected not-him had seen what he had done to Frisk, knew the depths of his depravity that he had sunk to (how, though? Was he able to see into his memories that same way that Sans could into the other’s?), and intended to extract his pound of metaphorical flesh.

Like hell; he wasn’t going down like this.

“tch… ya got the drop on me, asshole. don’t get cocky,” Sans spat, sneering and fighting to summon his magic again (it wasn’t responding to his call, reminding him humiliatingly of his attempted resistance to his soul bond), but his counterpart, watching him struggle in vain in silence, huffed out a clipped chuckle, raising a brow bone sarcastically.

“i “got the drop on you” because you incorrectly assumed i couldn’t do anything to you, that i was weak and powerless,” he scoffed, sketching quotations around his quote with his free hand, and Sans twitched at this, nervousness building in his mind that the other could read him so easily.

How long had he been watching him to be able to deduce that?

His doppelganger wasn’t done speaking, though, tipping his skull to the side deliberately and cracking the joints in his cervical vertebrae menacingly as he went on; a light flickered somewhere in the background of the mirror, throwing shuttered light over glass flasks and black marble counters layered with haphazard stacks of papers and scattered scraps of metal (a lab of some sort…?).

“and while you have insisted on jumping to conclusions as to my character, failing time and again to discern simple tics and indulging ego, _i_ have been studying _you_. “know thine enemy”, as the humans say,” he alluded, grinning with savage humor at his insults, and Sans scowled deeply, gritting his teeth and renewing his struggles.

This douche thought he had the upper hand just because he had him trapped, so much as to brag about how much better he was; he had another thing coming if he thought he could get away with that shit.

No one was allowed to call him stupid, especially not this knock-off, high horse version of himself.

“you don’t know a _damn_ thing, fucker. when i get down from h… ahh! _fuck!_ ” he began to snarl, confidence and heightened rage coming to him as he _finally_ felt the stir of his magic in his bones (understandable, as he had overexerted himself tonight, with his destruction in the woods and how much magic he had used when he had… had done what he had to Frisk), but was halted mid-speech by the other Sans clenching his extended hand even further, cut off by an involuntary cry of pain.

The murkiness of oblivion and unconsciousness pressed in on him, agony from the crushing force leeching into his soul and forcing its way into his mind, but Sans shook it away, refusing to give in to the bastard; he had to prevail, needed to come out on top over him for _once_.

He had already lost so much to his other self, Frisk’s love and desire only the first of his shortcomings… he couldn’t afford to lose more ground.

The redoubled pressure placed on him rendered him completely silent though, despite his internal oaths, nothing more than grunts able to escape his now forced shut jaw; the other Sans, his humorless grin reflecting back in a foreboding echo, tsked reprimandingly, deliberately ignoring the sweat building on his own skull in favor of continuing his soliloquy.

“i know _plenty,_ believe you me,” he assured the trapped and grudgingly silent skeleton, unspoken menaces plain in his lethal tone. “i know that you’re prone to hotheadedness and your so-called “cockiness”. you have your mutable bright points, but are mostly just violent and bloodthirsty and savage, hiding your failings and loneliness through forcefulness and destructive habits. you see only weakness in others, take advantage when it suits you, and assume superiority through power and cruelty.”

He paused, long enough to wipe a trail of sweat from his jaw onto the shoulder of his dirtied, rumpled t-shirt (which bore the phrase ‘i shot the serif’), before glaring with renewed venom, his words hissing from him in both disgust and antagonism.

“ _you_ are what humans think of when they say the word monster.”

Sans, swallowing against the welling of guilt and shame that was building in his chest, glanced away from the mirror for a moment; it should mean less than nothing to him, what he was being accused of and described as, but the truth of it, the closeness to how he felt about himself, was wrenching his mind into demented circles of denial and self-doubt.

As much as he hated admitting it, as much as he wished that he could refute it, Sans knew that his other self was right, that he was despicable and depraved, but that was the way of the world, at least the one he lived in (another conundrum between the two universes… what had happened to cause the monsters in this world to be so cruel and conscienceless?); he’d never been given a choice in the way he handled himself and others, forced to defend himself from his formative years.

In this place, it was fight or be put down, take or be taken advantage of, move or die.

Kill or be killed.

He knew these were mere excuses, reassurances for his ego and temper that he didn’t deserve to hide behind, but what could he do about it?

He had already done the worst that he possibly could…

Either not noticing or not caring about his prisoner’s preoccupation, Sans’s doppelganger went on, slivers of pure, unadulterated fury filling his tone, seeming to drop the temperature in the room even further (Sans’s breath fogged away from his nasal cavity, the mist chilling and dropping almost instantly).

“but that would have been excusable, expected of a creature that lived in the sort of place you do, that had experienced such loss and loneliness. i may have even pitied you… if you hadn’t extended your selfishness and malign to _her_ ,” the other Sans seethed, his voice gathering volume and danger the longer he spoke; the moment he mentioned Frisk, though, despite his already furious demeanor, what had clearly been measured rage snapped, unleashing a surge of power like Sans had never felt before.

The wallpaper curled away from the shuddering surface of the mirror, blackening with hoarfrost; the air itself thinned, frigid and shimmering with raw magic; the mirror began to crack, fissures snaking from the edges towards the middle, giving the impression that the world itself was shattering.

The atmosphere was nothing to the transformation the monster causing it was undergoing, though.

The other Sans looked more demon than monster, both glaring sockets lit by pulsing orbs of electric blue magic and bones crackling with plasma; he exuded the force of his power in shock waves, tangible across time and space, and seemed to transcend mere wrath, bringing about a form of fury so conscienceless and primal that Sans felt his soul shrink in terror, no longer questioning that he would be meeting his end that night.

He had never been more afraid than he was right then.

His counterpart, glowing in the unearthly light of his still escalating magic (where had he gotten so much power? Was that what being with a human brought monsters?), let out a sound somewhere between a growl and a laugh, his clenched teeth seeming sharper in that moment as they ground together in vehemence.

“i should dust you where you _fucking_ stand for what you did to her… there is _no_ excuse. how dare you harm her. how _dare_ you lay your filthy hands on her. _how dare you take what was **mine**_!” he bellowed, the walls shaking from the depths of his rage; he slammed his now clenched fist forward three times in quick succession, dragging Sans forward and smashing him progressively further into the wall with each motion.

Each meeting of his body to the drywall jolted Sans’s already damaged soul, forced even greater pressure on his cracked bones and over-exerted mind; he had no control over the pain filled cries that were jerked from him, his vision fuzzing and fading.

He felt like he was being shaken apart, his bones screaming in strain and protesting more abuse, but he could do nothing to stop it, losing his grasp on the bare thread of his magic that he had managed to catch ahold of; he was a ragdoll in a tornado, the technique he had used himself, hundreds of times, to beat the brains out of his quarry whipping him back and forth with disturbing ease.

He wondered passingly, as his skull crashed backwards into the wall again, why Papyrus hadn’t come roaring into the room yet, bitching about the noise that he was making (he must be forming a concussion, his thoughts scrambled and nonsensical), but lost track of his thought when he was dragged completely off the ground, held above the floor tiles in the grasp of the other skeleton’s magic.

An unseen, ethereal presence clenched around his neck, squeezing so hard that he heard one of his vertebrae crack; Sans didn’t need to breathe (he didn’t have lungs to fuel, but liked to scent out his surroundings, so he had formed the habit over the years), wouldn’t have been inhibited by the blockage even if he did, but the intent behind the constricting force wasn’t to suffocate him.

With one more surge of power from his counterpart, the concealed manifestation would snap shut completely, obliterating anything held inside it; it would take his head off as easily as a child snapping a twig.

Sans stilled his attempts to resist the pull of his opponent’s magic, wary of his movements causing his demise, and looked, as well as he could, to the violent, vengeful monster in the mirror (his vision was filmed with agony and the clutching hands of his approaching death, only the faint outline of his other self visible to him), perceptibly shivering in fear and pain both.

The face of his adversary was pitiless, though, locked into an expression of utter loathing; he was trembling as well, a sheen of sweat covering his skull and extended hand, but the other Sans paid no mind to his exertion, only snarling more fiercely, a wounded, _very_ angry animal that had, at last, cornered its prey.

“it would be easy… so _damn_ easy to kill you… you have no idea how badly i want to erase you from existence,” he snapped viciously, his clenched fist shaking in the charged air and his gaze flaring passionately; his hand tensed, squeezing the hidden, deadly force tighter (another vertebra cracked under the pressure, spiking Sans’s agony higher).

Sans’s head was swimming, his sight failing and plunging him into blackness; this was the end, he was sure of it.

This was where he died for his sins, their weight on his back even heavier than the pressure of his counterpart’s homicidal magic.

He didn’t care about the monsters that he had killed, the hearts he had broken or the lies he had spilt; they were casualties in a life of self-indulgence and avarice, meaningless to his conscience.

The offenses that clung so fiercely to him, all that he could think of, in his last moments, was the fear and hatred in Frisk’s eyes, her cries of pain and the tears that had fallen from her begging eyes… he had committed a wrong both fearful and unforgivable on her, no matter the way he spun it or tried to excuse himself.

If he were to die for any reason… that was certainly a deserving one.

He just wished that he had had the chance to… what? Make it better? Redeem himself? Prove he was better than what he had done?

Hardly. He was a demon, unworthy and cruel and so, so wrong; there was nothing that he would ever be able to do that would right what had happened that night.

And yet, even as he felt his consciousness fading into the ether… he wished, wished for what could never be.

At least now she would be safe from him.

“but i can’t… not yet.”

Sans, in shock, felt himself crumble to the floor, whole instead of falling to dust, his vision slowly returning to him as he breathed haggardly and clutched at his aching chest (it still hurt, extremely badly… it wouldn’t hurt if he was dead…); he shakily touched at his cervical vertebrae, feeling the new cracks in the bone in a moment of existential crisis while he gasped for steadying breath.

How was it possible that he wasn’t dead?

He had felt his end looming, closer to the edge of the Void than he ever had been before; he had seen the intent for murder in the other Sans’s eyes, knew he was more than capable, and willing, to rip him into literal pieces.

If _he_ had strength like that, had their positions been switched… he sure as hell wouldn’t have let his counterpart live to wrong him another day, to potentially get in his way later.

With power like he possessed, he could have taken command of the monster race himself, overthrown the king, all the respect and authority needed held in the palm of his hand (it’s what he would have done, in his place) …

And yet the monster was an underpaid, lowly physics professor at a small local college, content to grade less than average papers and deal with overconfident young adults’ drama and take shit from a board of directors that didn’t all want a monster teaching at their university (and his memories testified to him not only enjoying, but actually _looking forward_ to this mediocre occupation).

He didn’t understand, couldn’t comprehend how his doppelganger could be so controlled and gratified in his less than ideal life… was he really that lazy, only stepping up to bat when he could no longer avoid it?

Or was it, again and always, because of _her_ , endlessly bringing out the best in her friends and family and all those that came into her circle of emanated love and friendship?

Sans didn’t know, truthfully couldn’t bring himself to care enough about the other skeleton beyond the now ingrained fear he held for him (he wasn’t fool enough to disregard the other Sans’s power any longer, cowed by his near death experience); all he needed to know was why he was still alive and shaking in his damn shoes, _why_ the other Sans hadn’t slaughtered him like he so clearly had desired to, had a right to.

It wasn’t mercy, he knew that for certain; there had been no mercy in his counterpart’s eyes, only cold-blooded hatred and malevolence and murder.

He was keeping him alive for a reason.

Sans spent another long moment lying on the floor, clutching at his chest and neck in disbelief (he really couldn’t believe he was still alive, after being held so close to the end…), before shoving himself up from the ground shakily, grasping at the edge of the counter for balance as he looked cursorily up into the mirror that held his double.

The other Sans had calmed significantly, his magic sinking back into his sweat covered bones and vanishing from the chilled air; his sockets were shuttered, one hand pressed to his temple and the other to his own chest, massaging slowly as he muttered calming words to himself, clearly talking himself down from his rage.

He looked up at Sans the moment he came back into view, however, dropping his hands away and resuming his hateful glare; the other skeleton grabbed up a rag from somewhere out of view to him (torn and stained with old splotches of oil), wiping it across his forehead and dusting his hands with it idly.

Sans, recognizing that he needed to do the same, resolutely ignored the towel sitting next to his left hand on the counter, stubborn in his posturing; he shook his throbbing skull side to side instead, waving away his fuzzy grogginess as well as few lines of sweat that were dripping from his temples.

It was a relief, at least, to know that using that much power took some toll on his counterpart… if they ever came to blows again, perhaps he could outrun him long enough to tire him before striking.

Sans smirked to himself, some of his confidence rising from where it had fled at the show of his opponent’s might (he had certainly done well intimidating him…), and stood up straighter, though his bones protested the motion by creaking and crying out, reminding him of the damage he had incurred that evening.

He was going to have to eat something before he went to bed, heal some of this damage…

Thinking longingly of the cheeseburger he wouldn’t be able to get (he couldn’t leave the house looking like this… he looked, and rightly so, like he had gotten his ass handed to him), Sans, gritting his teeth against the pain wracking his body and soul both, snorted as disdainfully as he could manage, brushing plaster dust from the shoulders and furred hood of his jacket.

“and why… why the fuck can’t you kill me? don’t have the fuckin’ guts when it comes to the wire?” he rasped, coughing raggedly as he acclimated himself to the discomfort of speaking with cracked vertebrae (a very new injury, one he had never suffered before and didn’t want to experience again), and through the mirror, the other Sans raised a brow bone, the corner of his mouth twitching, as though repressing a smile.

“despite the literal truth of that comment, i could kill you and not lose a _second_ of sleep. the only reason i’m sparing you is because dusting you would leave frisk with no protection whatsoever,” he replied offhandedly, tossing the rag he held back out of sight; it landed with an audible rustling of paper against fabric.

“as worthless and lacking a job as you’ve done so far… you’re all that stands between her and execution in your shithole of a universe. the only way she’ll live to see the surface again is if she stays… with you,” he stated reluctantly, folding his now empty arms across his chest and leveling a withering scowl at Sans, layered with cynicism and antipathy.

Sans, taken aback by the answer, raised his own brows, surprised by his counterpart’s candor; he clearly had much better control over his emotions than he possessed personally.

He wasn’t sure he would have been able to keep from killing him and thoughtlessly sentencing Frisk to her unfair, painful end at the hands of the monster race… another point in his double’s favor.

He was smarter than he had given him credit for.

“i fuckin’ know that. why’dya think i’m hidin’ her? i ain’t gonna let her get captured,” he shot back, annoyed that he was being upstaged _again_ (no wonder Frisk worshipped the ground the fucker walked on, he thought of everything… there must be _something_ wrong with him, though…), then turned away from the mirror disdainfully, walking to the damaged wall behind him to assess the damage that had been done to it.

There was a large, inverted indent where he had been smashed into it, sending cracks streaking across the surface and leaking large piles of plaster dust onto the tiles; he would have to take the day off tomorrow to fix this, replace the wallpaper and drywall himself (it didn’t seem like any of the pipes had been damaged, thank the stars)…

No, wait… he couldn’t do that.

He _needed_ to go to work tomorrow, to keep Papyrus off his scent; he was leaving tomorrow night (technically tonight, as it was long past midnight), taking Frisk to his old house.

Fuck. Paps wasn’t going to thank him for leaving this mess…

Behind him, the other skeleton monster let out a flat snort, watching as Sans picked uselessly at a drooping strip of wallpaper.

“you’d better not. you’re going to keep her safe until i come for her, and if one more hair on her head is out of place, there’ll be hell to pay… i’ll destroy you so thoroughly that they’ll never find all of you,” he threatened, not a hint of clemency in his gravelly, hostile tone, and Sans, his sockets trained, fixed but unseeing, on the ruined drywall he was facing, suppressed a shiver, refusing to show that he was scared.

He could figure out a way out of this… he could find a way to beat this asshole, keep Frisk alive and to himself, and fool everyone in the Underground while he did it.

How he was going to do that was the bigger question.

Panic threatened his stoic composure, the probability of failure and what it would mean for the already uncertain future pressing in on him (what if she was captured? What if she was taken from him? What if she never forgave him, refused to bond with him? What if, what if, what if…), but he shook it away as best he could, turning on his heel with to face the mirror with a look of contemptuous disregard plastered to his face.

If he made it through tonight and tomorrow, everything would be fine. He could figure everything else out on the way… just tonight and tomorrow.

“big talk comin’ from a reflection. how are ya doin’ that, anyway? i can’t even feel your soul... oh, and psa, fucktard: i ain’t gonna do shit for you. anythin’ i do, i do for _my_ mate,” he disparaged, finally picking up the towel on the counter and folding it neatly (he congratulated himself on how steady his hands were as he went through the familiar motion) before putting it back in its rightful place.

The other Sans huffed humorlessly, gesturing around himself with an errant hand.

“i haven’t quite figured out how to fully reach your universe yet, but managed to track our… your soul, when you marked frisk,” he explained nonchalantly (though his gaze hardened, flinty and vicious, when he mentioned the mark), as though tracking a soul signature across space-time was as easy as the Sunday crossword; Sans couldn’t help but be inwardly impressed, aware of just how difficult soul searching was.

He would have wondered how his other self had managed it without a great deal of complex machinery (Gaster had been working on the very same thing, for reasons he never alluded to, before his fall, and had filled several rooms with large, intricate machines for just that purpose), but had already felt the strength of his magic for himself; it was clear that there were very few limits to what he was capable of, should he chose to exercise his influence.

“with our connection, i can look through your eyes into your universe, exert power over your soul… but not for long, and not often,” his double went on, blithe and bored, as though explaining simple math to a child; Sans bristled at the condescension in his tone, but thought better of snapping a quick retort, storing the information away for later.

It was possible that he could use the same technique to his advantage… and it was gratifying to know that he wouldn’t be being watched constantly.

Following the other monster’s explanation, and almost on cue, the image in the mirror stuttered, flashing between the reflection of the bathroom and the background of the other Sans’s lab a few times before steadying; the other Sans staggered slightly, following the unsteady episode, leaning forward against the counter he stood in front of, looking drained and haggard, far from the terrifying beast he had been only moments before.

Interesting.

Sans’s counterpart was far from done, however, and, after a short reprieve, looked back up in the mirror, expression set and determined despite the weariness that was dragging his shoulders down.

“and the last thing frisk will ever be is _yours_ , scum,” he snarled, possessiveness clear in his tone and face both; territorial anger immediately blossomed in Sans’s chest in response, burning his fear and pain and confusion into ash.

He let out an animalistic snarl, his claws biting into his palms and his hackles rising.

The very _first_ thing that Frisk was now was _his_ , his treatment of her notwithstanding; though he had gone against everything that was right, everything that she deserved (he would make it up to her… he _would_ , he just… didn’t know _how_ …), he had still staked his claim, had taken the first step in tying her soul to his.

She would give in eventually, when he had mended his ways (somehow) and had proven his worthiness as her partner (maybe).

But even in the time it took for her to accept him, she. Was. _His_.

“she already is, fucker. ya said it yourself: i marked her, she’s _mine_ … and i ‘ve seen th’way she looks at me. she wants me, she just don’t know it yet,” he growled vehemently, confident in, at the very least, his last statement (she had looked at him, often and long, with desire and passion in her eyes), but the reflected skeleton monster appeared unimpressed by his assertion, rolling his gaze up the to the ceiling and back derisively.

“you… she sees _me_ in you. she’s confused, and understandably so. she knows the difference between us,” his doppelganger countered, sneering and self-assured; he reached up with one hand, seemingly unconsciously, to touch the heart locket strung around his neck, rubbing his thumb over the polished, golden surface before dropping his hand away again, surging confidence in his smirk.

“she’ll _never_ accept you, your mark will fade, and when i come for her, she’ll be back where she belongs.”

Sans, distracted only momentarily by the odd motion his counterpart had made (the locket… it looked familiar, far more than he was comfortable with; it looked a great deal like the one that Frisk had worn as a child, in the oldest of the other skeleton’s memories of her), barked out a harsh laugh, leering sharply.

If his mark faded before she accepted him, he would just place another. And another. And another, until the day that she came to him willingly, until she recognized that her life, her _soul_ , was _his_ now.

She wasn’t going _anywhere_.

“didn’t seem to know the difference when i had her screamin’ _my_ name and comin’ on _my_ cock and _beggin_ ’ for more,” he spat superiorly, his magic surging in response to the remembered sound of her passion filled voice, no matter how bitter the taste in his mouth (it tasted like ash, the pleasure he had gotten meaningless in the wake of how he had obtained it), and in the mirror, Sans’s counterpart dropped all pretense, baring his teeth in a growl of invidious fury.

His magic roiled beneath the surface of his bones, shooting random, blindingly bright beams of blue tinted light across the room behind himself; his fingers clenched into claws of animalistic wrath, a long crack snapping shockingly across the mirror as the pressure of his power mounted.

Sans flinched at the noise, conflictingly both satisfied that he had gotten a rise out of his other self and also terrified that his double was losing his temper again, the agony of his last encounter with the brunt of his anger still fresh in his memory.

But even in his seemingly uncontrollable ire, nearing the breaking point for the second time in ten minutes, the skeleton in the mirror clenched his sockets closed, turned his head away, and breathed out shakily, visibly forcing his temper and his protectiveness and his rage down.

He took a short moment to compose himself, astoundingly quick in the dismissal of his anger (Sans, disgruntled, grudgingly made a mental note to attempt the same exercises), before he let out a rumbling sigh, glancing back at Sans in the mirror.

“you’ll pay for that, in time,” he swore decisively with a short, assured nod, not a shred of doubt in his expression, then straightened, wiping the back of a still trembling hand across his forehead, dismissing with the clinging sweat the remaining dregs of his anger.

“for now, however, i must find out why she ended up in your hands in the first place. i feel the reason holds the key to reaching your plane, and time is of the essence… but your memories are spread apart and hazy, indistinguishable in places. looking into your universe is difficult,” he lamented, looking away and to something out of view in front of him, and Sans, furrowing his brows (was it really possible for him to get here? It seemed so, given their odd and unlikely conversation presently…), tapped a forefinger against the counter in front of him, considering his options.

He could allow the other Sans’s wavering attention to give him the opportunity to escape so he could heal, rest, and plan on his own, a great deal of new information available for contemplation…

Or he could endure a little longer, covertly probe his counterpart for more information, and find out a bit more of what he was up to.

It seemed like a waste of time and resources, as well as patience, but there was potential for him to learn something that he could twist to not only divert, but perhaps fully prevent, his other self from finding his way to this separate universe.

If there was something of that caliber that he could glean from an extended conversation, no matter how trifling or aggravating, he needed to know it; it was essential to keeping Frisk to himself, the very real possibility of having her snatched away from him by her former boyfriend weighing on his mind.

An ounce of prevention, as they say…

As such, Sans shifted his jaw, threw a furtive look at his distracted double (there was the clear sound of paper shuffling just out of view; he must be going through some notes) before raising one hand to casually inspect his claws, holding them up to the light.

“tch. the only thing that’s different between ‘em seems to be determination,” he observed nonchalantly, keeping his gaze on his extended hand even as he saw his doppelganger’s attention return to him from the corner of his socket, but despite the flash of intrigue that shot across the other skeleton monster’s face, he was clearly skeptical, giving Sans a long, hard look of scorn.

“what would _you_ know about determination?” he ridiculed, looking him up and down in obvious dismissal, and Sans stiffened indignantly, glaring over at his reflected double and flipping him off exuberantly.

“fuck you, i was a scientist too, douche. didn’t stick it out in the lab as long as you did, but i know enough to see a fuckin’ anomaly in space-time,” he remonstrated, seething at being looked down on, and only barely held back a grin when the other Sans blinked, blankness quickly followed by curiosity overtaking his former contempt.

Hook, line, and fucking _sinker_.

“…anomaly. explain,” he demanded, guarded but clearly interested as he leaned closer in the reflection, and Sans, again feigning detachment, shrugged indifferently, his sockets hooded.

“well, frisk can’t reset here, not like she used to. and i was able to kill the flower thing; frisk said i shouldn’tve been able to, since he could reset before, too,” he explained, wiping a small pile of snow off of the counter and onto the floor with the side of his hand (what a fucking mess… Papyrus would kill him if he saw this before he could get out of town with Frisk) while the other monster, clearly stunned, leaned back as though dealt a physical blow, staring into middle space idly.

“flowey is _dead_? and frisk can’t reset… determination… but what could’ve caused the disturbance, the deviation? not alph, she didn’t know enough to cause that kind of damage… and the lab has been abandoned for a decade now…” he mused to himself, his fingers winding themselves together as his mind worked quickly through possibilities this information offered.

Sans, already gleaning new information from their interaction (his other self hadn’t known the flower was dust, or that Frisk couldn’t reset… he hadn’t been lying it must be harder for him to see his memories), allowed himself the smallest of smirks, stuffing his hands into his pockets and tracing the sharp edge of the box of cigarettes in the right one, wishing desperately that he could light up but not daring, already on edge about the wrecked bathroom.

Papyrus had a nose as good as Greater Dog when it came to him smoking inside, and he didn’t want to test the depth of his brother’s ignorance of what was going on in the restroom.

Sighing heavily and promising himself a smoke as soon as he got away from the other skeleton (he _needed_ it, by now, almost as badly as he needed a drink, his mind frazzled and his emotions shot to shit by everything that had happened that night), Sans inclined his head to his counterpart’s reveries, having followed much the same line of thought in his own studies.

He had come to only one conclusion, from what he had learned from Frisk and his old notes both… had been intending to find out more on the subject, if he could, when he had gone out to visit Frisk that evening.

“alphys wasn’t the only one workin’ with determination,” he hinted, his amiable tone thus far colored darker with toxic remembrance and reluctant necessity (the last thing in the Underground he liked to think of was the monster that had twisted him so badly, that had taken the purest things in his life and destroyed them), and in the mirror, the other Sans tore himself away from his reflections, his interest changing into implication and memory.

The two skeletons shared that look, mirrored perfectly on two very different but also alike faces; reluctant pathos, loath recognition.

“…you’re talking about gaster,” he said slowly, appearing just as reluctant to discuss the past Royal Scientist as Sans was (just saying his name aloud felt like sacrilege, like the spirit of the old skeleton monster would appear from the Void upon being called). “not possible, he’s been dead for fifty years.”

Sans nodded to this as well, having thought of this himself.

“even longer here. but who else? no one knew near as much as he did ‘bout it… he coulda messed with it somehow, before he… fell, caused somethin’ to change,” he enumerated, cursing at himself for stuttering halfway through his statement (no one knew, not even Papyrus… it had been over a century, he didn’t need to keep having fits over someone finding out), and Sans’s counterpart leaned his chin on his hand, considering.

“…it isn’t out of the question, but why would he do that? dad… gaster, rather… he knew the dangers of meddling in human magic. he had already ceased his experiments when he fell,” he insisted, clearly having been on better terms with the deceased scientist, and Sans snorted dismissively, knowing perfectly well how many secrets his father had had.

He had been forced to help him with some of them, the mere memory of dismembered, tortured monsters falling to dust and turning to sludge making him ill.

“’s far as you know,” he muttered, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably (fuck, he needed that cigarette _bad_ ), and the other Sans spared him a glance, flicking his gaze over his face for a moment, before nodding minutely, tapping his fingers on the side of his jaw.

“…perhaps i missed some of his research… but the fact remains that he was always careful. he was a monster of science, not a soulless machine. he had ambition, that’s all,” he supplied doggedly, refusing to back down, and Sans, stunned, could only stare at his reflected double in the mirror, shaking his head side to side slowly.

He couldn’t be serious.

“you’re kiddin’ me. gaster was a fuckin’ psychopath, he…” he started to protest, horrifying reminiscence rearing in his mind’s eye (his brother on the experiment table, the machine that extracted determination, the blood, the dust, his _mother_ ), but stopped short, seeing the spark of interest in his counterpart’s eye and determining that he had said _more_ than enough about himself. “nevermind, it’s not important. fact remains that he coulda looked into somethin’ he shouldn’t have.”

His doppelganger started at him for another long moment, silent and observant (Sans looked away after a few seconds, tracing the still damp edging of the towel he had folded), before letting out a huff and nodding to himself, shifting his jaw to the side contemplatively.

“i need to look through the lab again. i must have missed something…” he clarified, looking down at the counter in front of himself again, and Sans, annoyed to have been kept up this long at all and disturbed to have remembered his time in the lab with such clarity and frustrated to have found out almost nothing for his troubles (he had given away more information than he had gotten, damnit all), grunted in response, kicking the toe of his sneaker against a loose piece of drywall on the ground.

He supposed he could check out the old lab himself, too, after he had found out if Frisk knew anything… he didn’t have any real desire to, but it could be that Gaster had researched different things in this universe than he did in his counterparts.

That was a worry for another day, though.

“whatever. we done here? i got a lotta work to do tomorrow,” he grumbled, itching for his smoke and the oblivion of sleep, and the other Sans, drawn from his reverie, blinked once before realizing what had been said, his expression lowering from scientific consideration and back to abhorrence.

“no, actually… there is one more thing,” he commented, scowling, before grinning rabidly, his magic leaking back into his left eye socket; his clenched the hand that he had been leaning his chin on into a fist, a thin layer of his power rising to cover it like an icy, sparking glove.

Sans’s soul stuttered in his chest suddenly, throwing him forward to grasp at the sink counter for balance; he cried out as it clenched and twisted, agony again nearly making him black out.

And just as quickly as he had been seized, he was released, freed to pant and gasp and refuse to cry from the sheer pain; he shuddered, clenching his sockets against the tears, before raising his gaze back to his counterpart, shaking and glaring tremulously.

The other Sans only arched a brow bone, twirling the magic he had summoned around and between his fingers.

“do i have your attention? yes? good, because you’re going to want to remember this. if you touch her again… if you make her shed even one more tear… i will visit such vengeance on you that what your soul is going through now will be a _dream_ in comparison,” he warned direly, dismissing his power with a snap of his fingers, and Sans, biting back a groan, forced himself back up from his slump, interest and alarm ringing in his skull.

So something had happened… but what?

“what’s goin’ on with my soul? what do you know?” he demanded urgently, staggering slightly and again catching himself on the edge of the counter (he needed to heal, and soon), and his counterpart sneered, giving him a disparaging smirk.

“finish reading the book you stole, and you’ll know too, idiot,” he said dismissively, like he was supposed to have somehow known already, and Sans snarled, scowling at his reflection.

“fuckin’ _forgive_ me for not thinkin’ of readin’ a damn book. _you_ wouldn’t fuckin’ understand what this feels like,” he snapped, rubbing at his chest as his soul protested again beneath his ribs; he expected that to be the end of it, to be able to turn and leave and attend to his various injuries, physical and moral both, but in the mirror, the other Sans’s cruel smile fell from his face, replaced with transparent, soul-rending agony.

At the same moment, a memory slammed into him with the force of a falling boulder, wiping the real world from his gaze and replacing it with a faded overlook of the Judgment Hall in Asgore’s castle.

He had never seen the hall look like this before, though… the tiled floor was cracked and ripped up in spots, spattered with blood and littered with splintered bones; the columns were in much the same state, some even fallen to obstruct the path forward.

The stained glass windows were all shattered, glass spread across the floor… and in the center of the wreckage, speared through with more bones than he cared to count, was Frisk, a knife held in her limp hand and her dead, sightless eyes staring up at the high, arched ceiling.

He felt horror like he never had before, seeing her body so grotesquely displayed; he wanted to scream, to turn his gaze away, but he couldn’t, forced to follow in the footsteps of the other Sans as he had staggered towards the dead child’s corpse.

He now knew what was wrong with his doppelganger now, what his darkest secret was, but even as Sans felt his soul soar at having such valuable information… he couldn’t help but feel sickened, disgusted by what he had done.

Why had he killed her?

What could have possibly driven the other Sans to murder her in what looked like cold blood, the difference in their power obviously vast.

That little girl... the innocent memories he had of her... she had done _nothing_ to deserve such a horrific death.

And he had called _him_ the monster.

He froze in his accusing thoughts, though, when the other Sans, in the memory, sank to his knees before the limp body of Frisk, her soul floating gracefully above her, shuddering sobs shaking his whole body; the scream he had wanted to let out moments before echoed from the walls of the Judgment Hall, anguished and heartbroken and desperate.

“no, no, no… why… why _her_?! she… she’s human, she’s _gone_ , she can’t be…” his double had sobbed, fighting with every ounce of strength he had, but had still felt his own soul change, had still felt the connection form, and Sans, in horror, realized what had happened.

He hadn’t known. His counterpart hadn’t known she was his soulmate until she was already dead.

He had killed her, and had lost what he had been waiting for for centuries.

The other Sans, curled in on himself and weeping uncontrollably and clutching at the dead girl’s extended hand, had howled his misery to the far off ceiling, begging tearfully for anything, anyone else, not the one he was going to have to kill again when the next reset came (none of this made sense... _why_ did he have to kill her?).

His soul, pulled towards the dead girl’s but knowing there was no relief to be had, had cracked in his chest, turning his body to dust even as he wept bitterly for another way, and then he was standing, stoic and vengeful, against a whole and undamaged pillar, watching the girl walk towards him again.

He had known then, though, known that she was his other half… and still had to stop her.

He had cried when he killed her that time, and every time afterwards, shouting at her to stop, to see reason, to _not make him do this to her **again**_ **.**

Over and over, blood and shame, sacrifice and dust, on and on; it became less than a blur to him, only the mounting, escalating pain keeping Sans above the rising waters of the compounded deaths and screams and endless shatter of his own soul.

And then he surfaced, gasping and clutching at his own chest and staring, with pity and dismay both, at his reflection, the other Sans looking back at him with disgust and malice and neverending agony in his gaze.  

“you know _nothing_ of pain,” he muttered quietly, the weight of hundreds of resets and deaths and lost time in his voice. “remember my warning, or you _will_ … i’ll do worse than kill you. i’ll let you live, and make you watch her spend the rest of her life with _me_.”

He wasted no more time on words or further threats; he raised his hand once more, glaring menacingly, and the mirror shattered completely, exploding away from the medicine cabinet and showering the sink, floor, and the front of Sans’s coat with broken glass.

Sans, for his part, could only stare in shock at where his counterpart had been moments before, blinking repeatedly to keep the horrified tears clinging to the edges of his sockets at bay (he had never felt so powerless, watching Frisk die over and over again, feeling his soul fall to pieces ad nauseum…); he brushed idly at some shards of glass that had settled into the wrinkles of his sweater, numb and lost in the unwanted memory, and shut the bathroom light off, uncaring of the broken pieces of mirror and plaster he stepped on as he turned on the spot, flashing himself into his bedroom, beside the closed sliding door that lead to his balcony.

The storm had gathered strength since he had been inside, beating incessantly against the windows and the barely visible roof of the shed below the balcony (how long had he been in the bathroom? It hadn’t felt very long…), so he only cracked the sliding door open a little bit before scooping his carton of cigarettes from his pocket, lighting one and taking a long, deep drag of it.

Hell of a night.

He’d have laughed if it wouldn’t have jostled his broken vertebrae; he tapped some ash out into the storm idly as he scanned his trash heap of a room, finally spotting the astronaut food bar that he had been meant to bring out with him to the shed that night, sitting on his bedside table.

It would do, at least to make him presentable enough to show his face at Grillby’s without getting the third degree from the local drunks about how shitty he looked.

Sighing and exhaling a long stream of smoke out the door, finally feeling a modicum of calm come over him, Sans glanced down at what he could see of the shed he had left not all that long ago, the dark window that faced his room empty and staring like a lifeless eye.

He wondered if Frisk was warm enough, and if she had done as he had said and eaten everything he had brought her.

Probably not, because it was him that had said it.

Rolling his eyes, Sans snorted, taking another long pull at his cigarette.

As long as she was able to travel tomorrow night, it would be fine; they both needed to get the hell out of Snowdin, before anything else happened to fuck up his plans.

Sans, ignoring the fact that he had had a major, encompassing hand in ruining his own agenda, frowned at the niggling sense that he had forgotten something important in the shed, but dismissed it as weariness almost immediately, flicking the butt of his cigarette out into the storm and pulling the sliding door closed before undressing, tossing his clothes haphazardly onto the floor and collapsing onto his blanketless bed, staring up at the ceiling and rubbing at his sore chest.

He really should find out what was going on with his soul, but he justified his laziness in not getting back up to fetch the old tome from his desk by promising himself that he would read the damn book in the morning; he didn’t have the presence of mind or patience to try to comprehend its old world speech at the moment.

He also needed to formulate a plan to find out more about Gaster’s research, to not only inform himself but perhaps circumvent the other Sans’s attempts to rescue Frisk, but he couldn’t muster the energy, only able to think, frustratingly, about why Papyrus hadn’t heard anything that had happened in the bathroom.

Mystery of the universe, he supposed, and stopped trying to think after that.

Snatching the dried nutrient bar from his bedside table and ripping the wrapper off with his teeth, Sans contented himself with healing and trying to get comfortable, eventually falling asleep with a wrapper stuck to his cheekbone and dreaming of sinister blue light, singing birds, and shattered glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T-T I hope all the exposition wasn't boring.


	9. The Rending of Souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The large, dusty compendium of forbidden human/monster knowledge, sitting beneath the shiny copy of monster mating rituals he had spent two hundred years avoiding reading, held the key to finding out what Frisk had done to him when she had rejected him (supposedly, at least… would his other self have intentionally deceived him?), and he had been intending to read it over breakfast.
> 
> He’d had plenty of time allotted to deciphering the complex, ancient language of the time before civilization, a time when monsters hunted humans for the power of their souls (he supposed he had one part of his education at his father’s hand to be grateful for… he knew Wing Dings well enough to read the book), but now would have to read it on the fly during his work day, during the odd times that Papyrus wasn’t looking over his shoulder.
> 
> Well, he was already late… he may as well grab some coffee from downstairs before he resigned himself to his brother’s bitching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T-T I'm so sorry it took so long to get this done, guys. At least I've been updating with other stuff, right? :D no excuse lol. Anyway, here we are, chapter 9. Not a lot to report, just some story-driven stuff before we get back to the real action next chapter. Warnings for cussing, almost naked skeletons, and mentions of rape. If you are below the age of consent, please, please go back from whence you came.
> 
> Fan art links:  
> http://thebananafrappe.tumblr.com/post/150243970833/fells-got-a-new-outfit-for-the-next-chapter (Fell's new shirt)  
> http://thebananafrappe.tumblr.com/post/149906427228/some-more-fanatic-for-your-writing-oh-my-gosh  
> http://thebananafrappe.tumblr.com/post/148707070808/hey-its-me-again-im-really-sorry-if-im  
> http://thebananafrappe.tumblr.com/post/148383968013/enjoyex-my-headcanon-for-fells-fuck-counter  
> http://thebananafrappe.tumblr.com/post/148351059783/all-of-you-every-part-of-you-is-mine-and-i (Something I drew myself)  
> http://yanderebunny303.deviantart.com/art/Dalliance-Chapter-8-in-a-nutshell-627169314
> 
> And my Tumblr, for updates, sneak peeks, fanart, and other shenanigans:  
> http://thebananafrappe.tumblr.com/

* * *

Ugh... It wasn’t supposed to be day yet.

Sans groaned, closing his sockets almost immediately at the sight of his light-filled bedroom, throwing his arm across his face for extra measure.

The wrapper of the astronaut bar he had eaten as he had fallen asleep crinkled against his humerus as he did, the silver foil stuck to his cheekbone by a strand of honey, but he made no move to remove it, only scratching sleepily at his pubis through his boxers and yawning widely.

Damnit. He’d slept in.

He had meant to wake early, after his eventful night, to check on Frisk before she woke and while Papyrus was still occupied with his “evening meditation” (he didn’t sleep, something Sans had never understood, since he had slept so well as a child, and instead sat in bed “collecting his thoughts”); she had been very hurt, the night before… he had not been gentle with her, and wasn’t sure he had given her enough food to heal all her wounds.

He didn’t want to risk having left her with more damage than… than she could live with.

Sans winced, regret again tearing at him (stars, he had been so rough with her…), but he shook it away, firmly shutting the remembrance of her pain and anguish from his mind; he had more than his planned reparations to think on this morning.

If he’d woken as he’d planned, he would have had plenty of time to look in on Frisk, make preparations for the trip to Hotland (the house there was still in extreme disrepair, so they’d have to stay at the resort until he had at least fixed the windows), and clean up the bathroom from the night before…

Now, judging from how many of his socks he had been able to see on littered around his floor, he was not only going to be unable to do any of that, he was going to be late for work as well.

 _Perfect_.

His bad temper reared its head, frustration seeping into his mind to poison his already sour mood; he was going to have to put up with an extra lecture from Papyrus over this, if not an outright fight… he hadn’t wanted to take any more damage before his lunch break, before he would have a chance to heal from being beaten nearly senseless last night.

Growling petulantly and reluctantly removing his arm from his sockets (the last thing he needed was Papyrus getting on his case today, damn it), Sans glared up at the ripples of light leaking through his sliding door and over his bed, blindingly white from the deep, newly fallen snow outside; it didn’t make sense to him, that he had slept so long.

He’d always been able to wake up when his alarm went off, practiced in the art of urgency (he liked his sleep, but had learned, the hard way, not to sleep too deeply); he hadn’t even heard it that morning, though, much less woken to shut it off.

He let out a long sigh, groggily registering the sounds of dogs barking outside (Lesser Dog trying to catch one of the rabbit monsters again, no doubt…), before rolling himself from his rumpled red sheets, setting his feet on the floor.

He rubbed at his sockets with one hand sleepily (at the same time knocking the nutrition bar wrapper to the floor at his feet), grasping over the top of his bedside table with the other and bumping a car magazine out of the way as he felt for his cell phone.

He furrowed his brows, though, lowering his hand and glancing over at the short table, when he didn’t find it in its usual spot, plugged in for the night and at hand to rouse him from his slumber.

Sans stared at the scratched, dented tabletop for a moment, trying to remember what he’d done with it, before looking down at his floor, the pile of clothes he’d shed the night before lying strewn haphazardly among older, equally jumbled articles of clothing, balled up pieces of paper, and other miscellaneous scraps of garbage.

He hadn’t taken his phone out of his shorts last night… he’d forgotten about it, too stressed and tired and injured to even think about it.

As if on cue, his chest throbbed plaintively, choking him of his breath and reminding him, none too gently, of another task he had set himself for that morning that he no longer had time for, one hand grasping at his bare sternum and his pained gaze rising to his computer desk, on which sat the stack of books he had… _acquired_ from the Royal Library.

The large, dusty compendium of forbidden human/monster knowledge, sitting beneath the shiny copy of monster mating rituals he had spent two hundred years avoiding reading, held the key to finding out what Frisk had done to him when she had rejected him (supposedly, at least… would his other self have intentionally deceived him?), and he had been intending to read it over breakfast.

He’d had plenty of time allotted to deciphering the complex, ancient language of the time before civilization, a time when monsters hunted humans for the power of their souls (he supposed he had one part of his education at his father’s hand to be grateful for… he knew Wing Dings well enough to read the book), but now would have to read it on the fly during his work day, during the odd times that Papyrus wasn’t looking over his shoulder.

Well, he was already late… he may as well grab some coffee from downstairs before he resigned himself to his brother’s bitching.

Glowering darkly and snarling under his breath, Sans pushed himself from the edge of his bed with a creak of the mattress springs and a pop of his back, bending to snatch his shorts from the floor to retrieve his cell.

He searched them impatiently, at last finding the phone in one of the back pockets (along with several packets of mustard and his lighter), then tapped a button on its side to check the time.

He was answered only by a blank screen, his glower and narrowed sockets reflected back at him from the dark, scratched surface.

Dead. Just his _fucking_ luck.

Sans considered throwing the useless contraption at the wall across from him, already dented and dusted with holes from his fists, or even just crushing the damn thing in his hand, but thought better of it and turned to plug it in instead; he would just have to return to the house after work to pick it up before he took Frisk to Hotland.

His access to his savings was through his phone… he would need it.

Disgruntled, annoyed, and already at the end of his rope (maybe he could sneak in a drink at lunch… calm himself down a little…), Sans kicked through the trash and clothes on his floor, draped his filthy shorts over the bar of his unused, dusty treadmill, and snatched the old, flaking book from his desk, ignoring the copy on top as it fell to the ground.

He tucked the tome under his arm, rubbed again at his aching chest, then flashed himself into the kitchen, flipping the switch on the wall to turn the light on; he trudged further into the organized, well cared for cooking space, grabbing a coffee mug from a hook hanging over the sink and shuffling over to the coffee maker.

He shot a glance at the clock on the wall over the refrigerator as he walked, registering the time with a dismissive grunt (half past eight… yeah, he was definitely late), then stopped at the counter that supported the source of the only breakfast he was going to get that morning.

Flopping the old book onto the counter in front of the machine, Sans flipped the rotted cover open and dragged his finger down the list of chapters on the first parchment page as he distractedly scooped grounds into the filter, looking for something pertinent to what he was currently suffering among the faded runes.

He’d always sucked at deciphering Dings… was that an “o” or an “r”?

He finally settled on a section that seemed promising, titled an encouraging “ _Beware”_ , and dug his claws into the pages to nearly the end of the book, flipping them over in a small cloud of dust.

He filled the machine with water before beginning to read, leaning over the pages with his elbows on the edge of the counter and listening to the chugging of the water through the pumps as it heated, his attention riveted to the symbols before him.

He was three pages into it, surrounded by the smell of fresh coffee, drowning in boredom, and beginning to think the other Sans had been bullshitting him (why would he tell him the truth, anyway? They were obviously enemies), before he was arrested by a paragraph at the bottom of the next page, his soul shuddering in his chest as he read.

“… _in time, we came to find that not all humans are drawn to the bond. The nature of their souls is divergent, given to nuance and change; only when fully bound will a human’s soul be constant and true. In the event of rejection, a human will suffer none, disconnected from their souls as they be, and take lovers as they may. If a monster is spurned by the mate of their soul, however, the soul will be rent in twain. Their death is slow and painful, and is unaffected by healing magic, as far as has been tested. There is only one name for this grievous and mortal wound._

_The Soul Rend.”_

Sans could only stare blankly at the strangely worded but ominous passage, dread and trepidation trickling down his spine.

He read it over several times in quick succession, to be sure he was translating correctly; the words remained the same, beginning to swim across the page in his growing horror.

Did he… had she… was he…?

Shaking and reluctant, Sans raised one hand to his chest, fear of what he would find within shaking him to his marrow, and slowly drew his soul from his chest, manifesting it in front of his rib cage to check it for damage.

And nearly choked on his breath, his hand rising to cover his mouth in shock.

Through the center of the upside-down white heart ran a crack so deep and long it nearly split the thing in half, smaller cracks radiating from the tear; a trickle of dust fell from it to the floor, the manifestation of his being twitching in pain instead of beating steadily, as it usually did.

His stats, flashing above the slowly spinning heart, testified to his injury, his HP cut by nearly a fourth (enough to withstand most attacks, but still… he hadn’t been this wounded in two centuries), and in his mind, the reality of his condition slowly sank in.

Frisk had rejected him, flat out, for another monster. She had cast him aside, and literally shattered his soul.

He was dying.

Sans, trembling and weak (no… _no_ , this wasn’t _happening_ …), reached out to cup his soul between his hands, faced with his own mortality, _again_ , in the space of only a few hours; he could hardly comprehend the sight in front of him, even as another fine stream of his own dust fell into his palms.

All that filled his thoughts was fear, the approach of the end of his days too much to bear; lost in his thoughts as he was, he didn’t hear the front door of the house open and close with a bang, or register the approaching clomp of heavy boots on the floor of the living room.

He didn’t even hear the hiss of disapproval exude from the tall skeleton that halted in the doorway of the kitchen, only snapping from his distraction when the intimidating, scowling monster said his name.

“SANS.”

Sans froze, hands clenching reflexively around his cracked soul, then hurriedly dismissed it, turning on his heel to face the monster that had just entered the kitchen, hiding the book on the counter by leaning on it and attempting to look casual.

He failed abysmally, only making the tall skeleton staring him down from the wide doorway lower his bony brows further.

Papyrus, ragged cape still swinging from his former motion, slowly folded his arms across his wide chest, made denser by his heavy, meticulously shined chest plate; his expression, scarred by a wide crack across one narrowed eye socket (the result of a lethal battle against a dragon monster, one that the skeleton had won unquestionably), sank further into dislike and suspicion.

He said nothing, though, tapping a booted foot against the kitchen tile; he was waiting for a response, never one to repeat himself.

Sans, swallowing at the nervousness building in his chest (had he seen what he was doing?), hiked his black boxers higher on his hips and turned to pour himself a cup of coffee to try to settle his nerves (his hands were shaking like leaves) as he leaned further over the open book next to him, drinking the black coffee straight in an attempt at nonchalance.

Again, he failed.

“oh, uh… heya, paps. thought you’d left already… want a cup of coffee?” he offered hopefully, holding his mug up for emphasis (his voice was shaking too, betraying his mortal terror over the state of his soul), but Papyrus shook his head stiffly, sending the machine Sans stood next to a hard look, as though it had personally offended him, before resuming glaring at his brother.

He was pissed as hell. _Shit_.

“NO, YOU ALWAYS MAKE IT TOO STRONG. I _HAD_ LEFT ALREADY, AT SEVEN, AS ALWAYS, BUT RETURNED TO SEE IF YOU WERE EVER GOING TO GET YOUR LAZY ASS OUT OF BED. YOU ARE LATE FOR YOUR SHIFT,” he reprimanded, walking slowly into the room at an antagonizing, intimidating stroll; Sans scooted the book further behind him with his elbow, giving his companion a strained, placating smile.

If he could get Papyrus to calm down, at _all,_ it would be good for both his plans and his hide; the situation, though already starting to spiral out of control, given his grievous injury (he still had no idea what he was going to do to fix it… maybe the book said more about it, further on…), his lateness in waking, and his hurriedly accelerated schedule, was still redeemable, and if he could avoid a physical confrontation with his brother, things might actually start looking up.

Might. But probably not.

“…forgot to charge my phone last night. was gonna get up early today, get some stuff done…” he excused in a mutter, averting his eyes to the hand he had clutched around his coffee cup (it was still shaking, the porcelain of the mug starting to crack in his firm grip), and Papyrus smirked, snorting through his nasal cavity in sarcastic amusement.

“HA! THAT WOULD BE A FIRST… THOUGH NOT THE REASON I HAD THOUGHT. I THOUGHT IT MIGHT HAVE HAD SOMETHING TO DO WITH HOW LATE YOU WERE OUT LAST NIGHT. IT WAS NEARLY THREE WHEN YOU RETURNED, WHAT WERE YOU DOING?” he demanded, tapping a gloved finger against his humerus, and Sans, blinking, could only stare at his brother, surprise and confusion overcoming him.

Nearly… it may have been around three when he had come out of the bathroom after his extra-dimensional beating, sure, but he had come back from the forest only a little after one (he was sure, he remembered catching a glimpse of the clock in the bathroom when he had turned the light on).

Had… had he heard nothing?

Wary and confused (Papyrus had to have heard _something_ , he had nearly been smashed through the wall that connected to his bedroom), Sans glanced quickly over his brother’s expression, looking for anything that might tell him what he was thinking.

Was he hiding his knowledge of the event? Unlikely… Papyrus didn’t beat around the bush, he’d have confronted him last night, if he had heard him.

Was he trying to trap him, somehow? Probably not that either. As fond as Paps was of his puzzles (his traps had the highest rankings in both kills and difficulty in the papers), he just had no subtlety.

So… so he really hadn’t heard anything… the question now was _how_.

He had no answer to that, his closest guess being that, while the other Sans had been present, he had somehow managed to take them out of the time stream, to bar any outside access to their camaraderie (and also keep him from escaping… brilliant bastard), negating any noise that came from the space and also distorting time within his own universe.

It certainly had seemed like he had been in the bathroom for a lot less time than he had been…

Again impressed against his will by his rival (this guy was fucking him up left and right… he needed to get a move on with circumventing his plans to get this universe, and fast… if he even survived that long), Sans shook his contemplations away, taking another sip of his coffee to give himself a reason to be pausing.

Papyrus wasn’t known to be a patient monster in the best of times… he supposed that ran in the family.

“i’m a grown ass monster, paps. i don’t hafta tell you what i get up to,” he said once he had drunk his fill (ugh… the filter must have a hole in it, he was drinking grounds now…), dismissive and final, and Papyrus, tilting his head and raising both brows, hummed to himself, walking over to lean against the table set against the wall.

He stared down his nasal ridge at him, something that looked a lot like superiority coming over his narrow face.

Sans didn’t like that, not at all.

“OF COURSE, BROTHER… I MERELY ASK BECAUSE I THOUGHT IT MAY HAVE HAD TO DO WITH SOMETHING I FOUND ON MY MORNING ROUNDS. THE MOST CURIOUS THING CAUGHT MY ATTENTION… IN THE SHED. I NOTICED THAT THE DOOR WAS AJAR, AND DECIDED TO INVESTIGATE. CAN YOU IMAGINE WHAT I FOUND?” he asked with false curiosity, keen and cunning knowledge in his gaze and his nasty sneer, and Sans’s soul seized in his chest, anxiety and outright panic washing over him like a tidal wave.

 ** _Frisk_** …

His mind blanked in fear again, frantically trying to think of what to do, how to handle this situation, how to save his mate from the fate she had surely suffered by now (Papyrus had been up for hours, and went the Waterfall route first on his patrols… she must be long dead, or at the very least greatly wounded and in Undyne’s hands, on the way to the city), and found he could do no more than breathe, and barely at that.

How was this possible? He was sure he’d closed the outside door, he _always_ closed the door, there should have been no reason for Papyrus to stumble onto her…

Was that what he had felt he had forgotten last night?

Uncertainty and dread whirled around him, confusing his thoughts and scrambling any efforts he made to try to make sense of them…

Until he breathed in, deep but faltering in his upheaval of anxiety, and smelled nothing but himself, the coffee, and Papyrus.

His panic settled immediately, his clamoring, rattled soul calming significantly (it had felt like it was beating out of his chest, agitated even further than before by worry for its other half); his hand unclenched itself, where it had nearly shattered the mug in his grasp.

She was safe. He had not found her… she was safe.

Well, perhaps not _safe_ , but not in his brother’s hands, and that was akin to safety.

He was sure, at the very least, that the taller skeleton had not seen Frisk; if Papyrus had found her, he would have touched her, at least a little, and if he had touched her, Frisk was sure to have struggled.

Her scent (stars, her scent… a mix of the freshness of rain and the sharp pungency of flowers that he could never seem to get out of his head…) would have been all over him.

Which would have been reason enough to tear him limb from limb, but that wasn’t what mattered right now.

As it was, Sans could smell nothing of her on his brother, could only smell pine from the woods and wood smoke from a fire and the wetness of the snow from the storm last night… there was no way he could’ve been close to Frisk (her scent clung to everything she was near, saccharine and thick and delicious).

Which left only one possibility in his mind: if Papyrus had been out in the shed that morning, and had not found Frisk… she had escaped.

Stars damn him to the _fucking_ Void, **_nothing_** was going right.

Anger and vitriol were quickly filling the abyss that the absence of his fright had left behind in his chest, simmering to a boil and agitating his already unstable magic; wasn’t he already in enough pain, suffering enough remorse, without having to also worry about _his human_ wandering around the Underground alone?

Hadn’t he _explicitly_ told her what would happen if she ran from him?

He had, he _knew_ he had, and her disobedience, in the face of his growing unease and the craze of his ire (he was no longer thinking straight, all but lost to his building temper), left him with nothing but vehemence, his coffee mug creaking in protest of his ever stronger grip on it.

While Sans was infinitely grateful that she had not been captured by his brother, still lived and breathed and existed in his pitiful life (would he have felt it, if she had been killed? He wanted to think so, but humans were so different than monsters… how was he going to protect her without knowing if she was in danger?), he was _not_ going to give her a pass for trying to escape him.

He had warned her, had made it _perfectly_ clear that he owned her, that she was **his** , and as soon as he caught her (he had no doubt that he would; there was nowhere in their world she could hide from him, not now that he knew her scent, her body, her _soul_ ), he’d make _damn_ sure she never thought about running from him again.

She would regret this.

He had more than her penance to think about right now, though (his bones throbbed, forcing consideration of all the things he could do to punish her into his mind, but he shook them away immediately); Papyrus was hinting at something, obviously upset and derisive.

He’d better find out what, before he blew up and started attacking; Sans didn’t think the kitchen would survive another all-out war.

There were still holes and cracks in the ceiling from the last one.

“no idea, bro. what did ya find?” he remarked as coolly as he could, his still burgeoning fury turning his tone more hostile than he had intended for it to be, and Papyrus, picking up on his anger, scowled menacingly, reaching behind himself and into the back pocket of his tight fitting pants.

He threw what was within into Sans’s face, forcing him to drop his coffee cup to catch whatever it was (it rattled to a halt on the counter top, next to the book hidden behind his back); the object jingled against his bare ribs when he managed to grab hold of it, shining dully in the glow of the overhead light.

It was Frisk’s chain.

Sans’s fingers clenched around the cooled metal reflexively, just another reminder of his human’s defiance (she was going to wish she’d never set foot outside that shed when he got done with her… break his fucking soul, would she? He’d break _her_ ), and across the room, long arms again crossing his chest, Papyrus sneered, looking at the chain in his brother’s hands with revulsion.

“WHY DON’T YOU TELL ME?” he snapped spitefully, glaring scornfully, and Sans, looking from Papyrus’s accusing stare to the chain in his grasp, scrambled for a response that would dismiss the other skeleton’s savage curiosity.

He hadn’t found Frisk, but surely there had been enough evidence in the cage to make it obvious that he had been keeping _someone_ in there, for quite some time at that.

He had to tread lightly… but that was going to be difficult, given his still rising irritation.

He wasn’t in his right mind, wanting immediately to warn his brother against questioning his activities (he didn’t have to answer to Papyrus, he made his own living and could do what he liked with it), but bit back a quick response, at least attempting to be civil.

It wasn’t worth the fight… he was still injured, he had to avoid a confrontation if possible…

“it’s not what ya think…” he began tentatively, careful to keep his tone even and his annoyance buried (it was getting more and more difficult to ignore the raging fire of his wrath, he was definitely going to need to blow off some steam in the forest as soon as Paps left him alone), but Papyrus cut him off with an acerbic, contemptuous scoff, pushing himself away from the table to tower the foot of height he stood over his older brother.

“TCH. YOU DISGUST ME. LEAVING CHAINS AND TORN CLOTHES AND PUDDLES OF ONLY THE STARS KNOW WHAT ALL OVER THE PLACE. I’VE TOLD YOU BEFORE, SANS, I DON’T WANT YOU LEAVING THE LEFTOVERS OF YOUR SELF-INDULGENT ORGIES AROUND THE HOUSE, AND YES, THAT INCLUDES THE SHED. KEEP YOUR WHORES IN YOUR ROOM, OR THE BACK ALLEYS YOU USUALLY TAKE THEM,” he disparaged, imperious and sardonic, and Sans, try as he might, felt his tolerance snap, pushed too far and too hard this morning to take this kind of abuse.

He could do whatever the _fuck_ he wanted with his time and the house _he_ had paid for… and no one, **_no one_ ** called Frisk that but him.

She was _his_ whore, no one else’s.

“where the hell do you get off, tellin’ me what to do with my… with who i wanna sleep with? i never say a _damn_ word when you’re fuckin’ mettaton wherever the _fuck_ you want,” he snarled, abandoning his post by the counter to step towards his brother threateningly; his magic skittered across his bones in agitation, sparking red lights across the refrigerator and the walls beyond it.

Papyrus seemed unimpressed, though, baring his fangs and growling back at him, his own magic flaring ominously.

“AND I WOULDN’T EITHER, IF YOU CLEANED UP AFTER YOURSELF OR AT THE VERY LEAST DID ANYTHING MORE THAN USE THEM. IT’S USELESS TO TRY TO TALK REASON TO YOU, THOUGH. ALL YOU CAN THINK ABOUT IS WHERE TO GET YOUR NEXT LAY,” he barked, his sneer poisonous and hard, and Sans barely resisted punching the bastard across the face, his fists clenching at his sides and making his joints creak in protest.

He pointed a clawed, menacing finger into his brother’s face instead, glaring hatefully.

“shut your fuckin’ mouth. you don’t know a damn thing about me, you don’t get to judge how i deal with my problems,” he warned, now nearly chest to chest with the taller monster (well, chest to chin, more like), and Papyrus rolled his gaze in his sockets, bending to stare mockingly straight into Sans’s darkened pair.

The space between them crackled with magic and violence, the air thick and charged.

“OH, I KNOW ABOUT YOU, SANS. I KNOW YOU ARE LAZY, ARROGANT, CRUDE, AND SELFISH. MAYBE IF YOU DID SOMETHING WITH YOUR LIFE BESIDES COMPLAIN ABOUT HOW HARD IT’S BEEN, YOU COULD FIND SOMETHING BETTER TO DO THAN DRINKING YOUR MONEY AWAY OR STICKING YOUR COCK IN EVERYTHING THAT MOVES,” he criticized in a pointed, inciting mutter, grinning in triumph and malice, and Sans did his best not to flinch at the truth of the poignant comment, his soul clenching painfully in his chest.

Papyrus was far from wrong in his assessment of the way he had spent his free time over the last century, drowning his sorrows and loneliness in bitches and booze… but it was a truth he didn’t want to be reminded of, on a morning already plagued by his own wrongdoing.

He wasn’t in the mood for this, and had far better things to wrestle with than his snide, petulant brother.

As such, Sans lowered his hand, itching to rip Papyrus’s lower jaw from his face, and clenched it in the material of his boxers instead.

“why don’t you get out of my fuckin’ face and go play guard? it’s all ya know how to do, besides give shitty advice,” he retorted, disdainful and backing away to collect his book and transfer his mug of now cold coffee to the sink (he’d wash it later, he didn’t have the patience right now), and Papyrus, smelling victory, barked out an unkind laugh, standing back up to his full height and not bothering to mask his smugness.

“AS MUCH AS I WOULD LOVE TO, I CANNOT. I HAVE TO DRAG MY WASTREL, DRUNKEN LOSER OF A BROTHER OFF TO DO HIS JOB,” he jabbed, always happy to get the last word in, and Sans glowered even more deeply, shooting his younger brother a venomous, sharp glare from the corners of his sockets.

“fuck off, papyrus,” he snapped, tucking the thick book under his arm and preparing to teleport upstairs to get dressed, but Papyrus was quicker with his retort than he was with his magic, smirking and haughty.

“AFTER YOU, SANS,” he sniped rapidly, just as Sans was turning on his heel to slip between the fabric of the world, and when he reemerged in his room, the irate, temperamental monster immediately threw the book and chain he held onto his bed, stalked to his battered wall, and punched a new hole in it, snarling and vicious in his temper.

One day, Papyrus was going to push him too far… he’d see how funny it was to mock him when he ripped his head off with his bare hands…

Murmuring obscenities beneath his breath and shaking plaster dust from his hand, Sans turned back to pick his way through the clothes on his floor, kicking dirtier articles out of the way and snatching up things that didn’t look (or smell) too awful.

Too late to do laundry now… he’d have to get some new clothes while they were staying at the resort.

He ended up putting on a pair of ripped black jeans and a red t-shirt (emblazoned with the word “Vagitarian” across the chest), topped with his furred jacket and a black beanie, before stepping into his already loose sneakers, grabbing the flaking book back up from his bed.

He looked at the chain lying on his sheets placidly, for a moment, vacillating between leaving it and taking it with him, then picked it up and clipped the length to two of his belt loops, turning sideways to admire the look.

Didn’t look nearly as good on him as it did around Frisk’s neck, but beggers can’t be choosers.

He snorted at his own thoughts, annoyance at her disappearance surging again in his chest (little bitch was gonna fucking get it…), and stomped out of his room and down the stairs, flicking a hand at the bathroom as he passed it to lock the door from the inside.

_A nice surprise for you, asshole…_

As he clomped down onto the landing in the living room, though, tucking the book inside his jacket for safekeeping (he’d have more time to read once he was at his station), he was hit abruptly in the face with a metal bucket, reaching out to catch it just before it hit the floor.

Papyrus leered at him from in front of the couch once he had recovered from the shock of being suddenly attacked by an inanimate object, gloved hands on his exposed hip bones.

Sans barely kept himself from throwing the bucket right back at the smug bastard, clutching his claws around the handle and glaring at the taller monster.

 “what the fuck was that for?” he demanded, shaking the container at him (it rattled, full of, on closer inspection, cleaning supplies), and Papyrus pointed out towards the east, indicating the hidden presence of the shack outside the house.

“GO CLEAN UP YOUR MESS. YOU’RE ALREADY LATE, YOU MAY AS WELL DO IT NOW. I WILL BE WAITING FOR YOU TO FINISH, TO MAKE SURE YOU GET TO WHERE YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE,” he commanded, punitive and clearly still riding on the waves of his verbal victory (it didn’t happen all that often, considering Sans would usually have punched him in the teeth for insulting him so much), and Sans, bristling but knowing the last thing he needed now was to instigate another argument, merely clenched the handle on the bucket, its side clanking against the chain dangling from his pants.

“whatever,” he snarled under his breath, stalking past his brother (not before bumping him out of the way with his shoulder) and out the front door, slamming it behind himself.

The frigid wind hit him as soon as he stepped outside, ruffling the fur on his coat’s collar and sending a smattering of snowflakes dusting across his cheekbones, but the cold mattered little to him (sometimes, having no skin was a relief, especially when it came to the climes of the Underground), and he turned on his heel to slog his way through the deep snow that had fallen the night before, dragging himself over to the entrance of the shed.

Uncommonly, most likely due to Papyrus’s pique, the door was unbolted, and swung open at the touch of his hand, washing slightly warmer but stale air over his face as he stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind himself as he did.

The cage within the enclosure remained much as he had left it last night when he had run from the evil that he had done, besides the marked absence of his prisoner (ahh… he must have left the cage unlocked, as well as forgetting to bolt her chain to the wall… damn it); the heap of blankets in the corner remained undisturbed, though the duvet he had brought her the night before was missing, the clothes he had ripped from her body lay where he had left them, scraps of lace and cloth that he had a hard time looking at for too long…

And in the center of the cage, glistening wetly in the muted light coming through the dusty, frosted windows, was the evidence of his crime, his magic and her blood staining the wooden floorboards a grisly red.

Sans felt immediately ill, the coffee he had drunk not nearly as bitter as the taste of his own sins (stars, what had he _done_ …), and looked away as he set the bucket down in the entrance of the cage, uncapping a bottle of cleaner and dumping the entirety of its contents over the stain; his dying soul pulsed behind his ribs, punishing him again for hurting his mate so badly.

He wanted to just burn the entire thing down and have done with it, cleanse the landscape of the proof of the wrong he had done, but Papyrus would have his head if he did that, and he needed to ensure that he found Frisk before she got into too much trouble (more than she was already in with him, at least).

Pulling an old, ratty washcloth and a brand new sponge out of the bucket, Sans set about throwing the various scraps of trash and clothing that were scattered around the cage into it while waiting for the puddle in the middle of the room to soak through, setting the contents on fire afterwards and trying to formulate a plan of action as he watched the smoke curl against the ceiling of the shack.

First and foremost, even before he tried to find out more about what had happened to his soul, he needed to find Frisk.

Even punishing her for fleeing him would need to be secondhand to assuring her safety, though the ire still festering, blistering and ardent, in his bones demanded he wrack vengeance for his disquiet and unease (she would pay, in time).

He knew she had had plenty of reason to run; he’d done much the same thing the second he could, after the deaths of his mother and father… but she was human, trapped in a labyrinth full of cruel and conscienceless monsters that craved the power and acclaim her soul could give them.

Her Sans (no… not _her_ Sans, just the other one… she was _his_ now, damn it) was right… she’d die here, on her own.

Which meant that he needed to know where she’d gone, to begin his search.

 She’d have had to wait until the storm had stopped before she left, especially in her state of undress (all she had had to cover herself had been that sweater dress, once sexy but now far too shredded and dilapidated to be fit for the cold, her shoes, and the comforter from his bed), and left before Paps had gone on his patrol… so she’d been gone for three hours, at most, and would have left prints in the fresh snow, to indicate which direction she had gone.

Smirking and gathering the bundle of material Frisk had used as a bed under his arm, Sans scrubbed the sponge over the puddle with his foot, deposited the dirtied object in the crackling, smoking bucket, and exited the shack, setting the pail of ash beside the outside wall to cool and carefully avoiding stepping in the doorway so he could inspect the disturbed snow in front of it.

His instincts, sharp and honed to hunting (he wasn’t a sentry for the Royal Guard for nothing; he was a proficient tracker, and had pursued far more meticulous and wary prey than his human), pressed him to believe that she had gone straight off on her journey, that he should be looking to Waterfall for his quarry, but he refused to make assumptions, carefully looking over the flattened powder.

Papyrus’s large boots had muddied the snow directly in front of the doorway, caution in his approaching steps and anger in his departing ones, but further out, staggering and small, the shape of Frisk’s shoes appeared, leading to the road… and curving out into town.

Sans, surprised and confused by his discovery (why had she gone into town? It would have made far more sense for her to begin her journey immediately; it was all she had been able to talk about since she had gotten here), looked further down the road into the bustling town, scowling and tracing her footsteps as far as he could, until they disappeared into the quagmire of the townsfolks’ many varied paths.

He didn’t see any footsteps matching her size or weight coming back from town on the road (and if she thought he wasn’t aware of her escape, she wouldn’t have cut through the forest, though he could double check that later), so he could only guess she was still there, disguised well enough to keep the populous from guessing at her identity.

She _had_ been through the Underground before… she would know how to keep herself safe from being identified.

Why she had made her escape into town was a mystery to him, but one that did not matter, in the long run.

He knew where she was now, would be able to pick her out from the crowd with _ease_ (even in the circulating air, her passage long disguised by the wind and the stench of the Dog Guard, he could smell her in the air, her scent old and weak but persistent still), and once he had her in his sights…

She’d never escape him again.

Sans grinned rabidly, his unforgiving fury overshadowing his pain tenfold and his free hand lowering to trace lovingly along the length of chain clipped to his belt loops; Frisk had a lot to learn, when it came to him, first and foremost being that he never, _never_ let what belonged to him go, and he did not appreciate her game of hide and seek.

No matter what the other Sans said, she _was_ his, the mark he had carved into her flesh and the magic now running through her veins testified to that, and she was going to learn, _very_ quickly, that he had no patience for games.

He’d have this chain back around her neck before lunch, and _then_ … well.

Then he’d teach her what it meant to play with him.

Gratified and ruthless, Sans walked back from the road to enter his house, to deposit the blankets in the laundry room and allow his brother to “drag him to work”, his smirk both cruel and anticipatory.

 _Ready or not, little girl_ … _here I come._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we're back to Frisk! Sorry for all the boring story crap, I promise it's necessary! Tell me what you thought, if you'd like. Otherwise, seeya next time, and thank you for reading!


	10. Times Darker Still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “but i’m feelin’ magnanimous today. generous, if ya would. so i’m gonna give ya a choice… see if ya learned anythin’ from our time together last night,” he allowed with a hint of amusement in his voice, though even that was twisted by brutality and knowing depravity.
> 
> “you can go back to the shed and wait for me. ya do that, wait for me ta come for ya… and i won’t lay a hand on ya. we can pretend this never happened. we’ll pack up, go on our way, and this fuckin’ business’ll be behind us."
> 
> “or you can run. you can run from me, and make me chase ya,” he went on, tone again plummeting into aggressive reprimand and fury; his gaze flashed, glutted on magic and furious emotion.
> 
> “needless ta say, that ain’t gonna make me happy. needless ta say… i’m gonna be fuckin’ pissed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T-T sorry for the wait, and no news. I lost my wifi and phone service. I'm uploading this from a Starbucks. But here is a nice long chapter to keep you all company while I'm languishing... more for the other stuff soon.

* * *

One thing Frisk thought that she had gotten used to was the cold.

She’d been weathering the climate of Snowdin and its cruel vacillations for over a month, after all, separated from the freezing cold and intemperate winds only by the walls of the shed.

She had learned how to keep warm over that time, how to keep out the worst of the chill and how to preserve her body’s warmth, enough to stay relatively comfortable except in the worst of the storms, when snow would blow under the shed door itself and the cold was indomitable.

The only reason she had survived those chills had been because of Sans, bringing her warm food for a change and letting her stay curled in her many blankets instead of forcing her to stand and answer his questions.

She had actually found herself feeling grateful for his thoughtfulness, in those times, until she remembered that it was his doing that she even needed to be protected from the cold in the first place.

Jackass.

Nevertheless, Frisk hadn’t been outside that shed in weeks, almost so long that she had forgotten what the outside of that small shack looked like. Definitely so long that she forgot that she had been being protected by strong walls and at least a modicum of warmth.

She certainly remembered the moment she pushed the shed door open cautiously, miraculously unlocked and making a long, if quiet creak as it shifted from its frame.

The frigid air hit her skin in an abrupt wave, sinking into her bare legs and through the rips in her ravaged sweater dress, and Frisk slammed the door shut the very next moment, shuddering in both shocked cold and trepidation both, back to the door and surprised gaze on the bars of the cage she had stepped cautiously out of just a moment before.

Dear gods, it was _freezing_.

Frisk let out a heavy, shivering breath, the exhalation fogging away from her cracked lips in a cloud of frozen mist and her hands clutching at her insufficient, worn sleeves in an effort to soothe her trembling.

She should have known she’d run into a problem in her slapdash plan.

The moment she’d woken from her forcefully short slumber, entire body aching and stomach rumbling (she had eaten last night, but not nearly enough to soothe her near starvation or even completely heal her wounds), her heart had been filled with hope, the lax tautness of the chain around her neck only the first of her exultant discoveries.

Not only had she not been attached to the wall by her collar, the door to the cage, as well to the shed, had been unbolted, the former hanging wide open and the latter creaking slightly in the far gentler but still present breeze outside the shack.

Plus, she had been able to move her body with hardly any inhibition, though her muscles (particularly in her abdomen and thighs) had complained loudly at her exertion as she had struggled to remove herself from her cocoon of blankets.

She had forcefully paid no attention to her lack of underwear, the blood crusted, deep, unhealed bite on her shoulder, or even the sticky, congealing puddle in the middle of the floor that she had to sidestep as she had limped over to where her shoes laid, near the open door of the cage; she had promised herself to think on her violation later, _much_ later, when she had had a chance to sit down and consider exactly how she felt about it.

She couldn’t stay here crying over what had happened. She had to get out, while the getting was good… but had spared a moment wrestling with the clasp on the heavy, loathed chain attached to her collar, finally freeing it after a short struggle and throwing it to the floor victoriously, glaring at the restraint hatefully.

She’d have taken the collar off too, but Sans, after she had removed it the first day after he had put it on her, had padlocked the humiliating object in place, and he carried the key with him.

So, with that done, Frisk had fixed herself up as much as possible, gathering the gold that she had hidden under a floorboard on her first day there (it wasn’t much, only two hundred pieces of gold, scavenged from around the Ruins) and vainly attempting to salvage her underwear and leggings (both shredded beyond repair), before tiptoeing to the door to the shack cautiously, ears strained and eyes wide as she listened, watched for her doom to descend on her for daring to step out of her place.

Sans didn’t appear to reprimand her, though, the only sounds the wind outside and the soft swish of clumps of snow brushing against the wooden panels on the shack, the only movements the slowly swaying, still shadow strewn branches of the pines outside the small building’s back window (it must be _very_ early… the mosses that lit the Underground were only beginning to glow after their night cycle…), and so she had grasped, tentatively, at the handle on the shed door, biting at her lower lip contemplatively.

She had planned to make a beeline straight to the east, taking her through the densest part of the forest and into the cavern that housed the part of the Underground that was dubbed Waterfall.

It wasn’t that far away, perhaps five miles or so, and if she ran part of the way (she had looked at her thin, weak legs dubiously), she could make it before either Sans or Papyrus rose to go about their duties.

She had thought of it all, how far she could run, where she could hide once in Waterfall, how to get supplies… but hadn’t accounted for the one thing that could stop her (besides, of course, having the misfortune to meet one of the monster residents of the Underground face to face before she could disguise herself).

The cold.

Cursing beneath her breath and dropping the back of her head against the door twice in quick succession, frustrated and still anxious to get away, Frisk considered her options carefully, looking over the dark, close insides of the building that had been her home and prison for so long (and registering, nervously, what felt like a thick, viscous liquid trickling down the inside of her thighs, colder than her skin; she could barely tell, from the numbness of the cold leeching into her flesh, and wasn’t brave enough to look down and see if it was really there).

She would need to get clothes, even for the relatively short distance between the edge of Snowdin village and the entrance to the waterlogged, humid caves of Waterfall; she didn’t relish getting frostbite, especially since it was a good way into the new region that she would be able to harvest a few water sausages to use to heal any damage she took.

And to get clothes, she would need to go into town, interact with at _least_ the shopkeeper, if she was lucky (maybe the other monsters would be sleeping or absent for the moment… who had the night guard here? Was it the dogs? She wasn’t sure, there was only so much she could glean from footsteps through the walls of the shack), and as it stood, she wasn’t sure she would have enough money to buy what she needed.

She’d have to get more gold, and thankfully, she knew (or at least hoped she did; everything else, so far, had been in the same places, from items to resources) where to find some.

She just had to get to the other side of town undetected and unscathed, and she could build an even better disguise than she had planned to have; a hooded coat and a scarf provided a lot of cover, when it came to hiding what you looked like, far more than mud and leaves could.

Additionally, it appealed to her just the smallest amount more than rubbing dirt and twigs into her hair and face.

Decided on her plan of attack, Frisk took a moment to cross back into the cage in front of her to retrieve the thick blanket Sans had brought her after… a-after hurting her (no… no, don’t think about it, not right now) to drape around her head and body, forming it into a makeshift cloak to stave off the worst of what the wind and temperature could do to her before edging over to the door again.

She cautiously pushed it open again to look out at the dark road, eyes squinted against the darkness and the cold both.

There was no one out on the snow covered path, illuminated here and there by softly glowing lamp posts (most of which had gone out, flames extinguished by the night’s storm); there didn’t even appear to be any footprints in the freshly fallen powder, giving her a good indication that she may very well be the first one in the village awake.

The cold was muted by the thick comforter she had donned, only her calves and face exposed to the biting chill of the air and the harsh whip of the wind, but she shivered nonetheless, swallowing back nervousness and reluctance both, allowing a flare of determination to push her the first step out the door and into the caverns beyond, the far off, moss dotted ceiling of the caves stretching out as far as the eye could see, encompassing the immense, snow banked forest of Snowdin, the cliffs beyond that, and the wide, frozen lake even farther off.

Frisk stalled as she thought of the enormity of the caves, allowing the shed door to swing creakily on the breeze behind her; she hadn’t spent a lot of time here, relative to how long the monsters had… it had been mere days, during her time here as a child, in comparison to the many thousands of years they had been trapped.

She felt almost remorseful about the fond memories she had of the Underground (discounting her many deaths and resets, of course… all in the past), her socialization with the despondent but still cheery inhabitants.

The time that Papyrus had taught her to ice skate, when Undyne had thrown her into a deep pond, claiming to be teaching her to swim… making ice cream with Alphys (salty and sweet and bright, bubble gum pink), playing an old, salvaged set of DDR with Mettaton. Tea and cake with Muffet. Contemplating the universe, and the many flavors of pizza, with Napstablook. Snail races. Junkyard digs.

Sitting across a table from Sans, soft music playing in the background, the lights floating serenely in his relaxed sockets fuzzed with humor and comfort.

A surge of guilt and sickness shot through Frisk’s body, nearly collapsing her knees where she stood (she only just avoided falling to the snow by grasping at one of the shed’s windowsills, frost cracking under her grip and flaking across her hands); just thinking of him, after… after last night, made her feel ill, bile rising in her throat and covering her tongue in acid and terrible memory.

She tried to push the thoughts away. She _tried_ , desperately, not ready to face them yet. Not prepared for the enormity of what she had suffered.

The remembrance didn’t care. It persisted despite her fight, despite her reluctance, throwing Frisk headlong into vivid recollections of pain and humiliation and fear and stomach churning disgust.

Gods… she had… she had enjoyed parts of what had happened… the evil, cruel, _monstrous_ shade of her lover had made her orgasm, when he had been forcing himself in and out of her body… had made her scream his name…

She had been _wet_ for him… **_gods_** …

She had been ruined by him, defiled and deflowered and… and she had come for him. Three times, at his command. It had felt… good… why had it felt good…?

Her love, the monster she longed for, thought of constantly, wished _desperately_ to be connected to… had taken her against her will, and she had liked it.

She was dirty. Used. He… how could he… she had _loved_ him, how…

How could Sans have _raped_ her?

Unable to hold back the memory, the wash of shame and depravation, the guilt and disillusion (no… no, she hadn’t wanted this… or had she? She had succumbed so easily…), Frisk doubled over and dry heaved into the snow, the emptiness in her belly saving her from outright vomiting, but got no relief from the psychological reaction, tears of fear and agony and anxiety sweeping down her cheeks, stinging from cold and recollection both.

She tried frantically to remind herself that they were different monsters, that the Sans she loved, the Sans she knew and cherished and desired and missed so goddamn much that it _hurt_ , would never have done this to her. Had always shown restraint. Had been good, and patient, and so, so giving.

This reminder didn’t help her, though, only bringing on a fresh, even more anguished wave of tears as a thought, a terrible, gut twisting thought, forced itself into her ruminations, poisoning her mind and forcing another dry, aching retch from her…

Would he even want her now? Now that she had had sex with another monster?

She wept bitterly at the crushing despair that consumed her, shaking her to her very soul; she knew he wasn’t that selfish, deep within, that he wouldn’t dream of blaming her for being raped. That he would comfort her, in the depths of her pain and betrayal and suffering, and would understand.

Would love her all the same, and help her in her struggle to recovery.

But Frisk couldn’t convince her frantic, panicking mind in this moment, in the here and now, with _this_ Sans’s abuse and horror and depravement carved into her skin, with _this_ Sans’s saliva and magic dried on her flesh, with the feeling of _this_ Sans’s hands and mouth and body still fresh in her mind and tingling in every one of her nerve endings and thrusting, with desperate desire, between her spread legs.

She could only see Sans, _her_ Sans, looking on her in disgust. Could only hear his dismissal… see him walking away from her, leaving her alone in her dejection and misery.

What a _slut_ , fucking another monster.

Another gag shook her body, painful and choked with tears; her nails, cracked and dirty, dug into the window sill beside her and the handful of the comforter that covered her defiled body, her tears falling, already freezing into patterns and waves and spectacular works of tragic art, into the disturbed snow at her feet.

She spent another few moments there, weeping quietly and holding herself in the storm of her own misery, before she sniffled, wiped the back of her hand over her eyes and mouth, and stood back up, her lower lip trembling and her eyes lowered.

Now wasn’t the time for bereavement. She had to get moving, and fast, before she was discovered.

Papyrus would be leaving the house soon, for his round through the forest on the Waterfall side of Snowdin (she had mapped his and Sans’s schedules, during her time in the shack, though Sans was more unpredictable, given his tendency to just teleport everywhere rather than walking), and from the way Sans had spoken of this version of his brother…

Papyrus was the last monster she wanted to meet on the dark road that morning.

Frisk shuddered, her legs quaking as she straightened them, her mind flickering to the memory of angry red magic, to the feeling of hard hands on her body, beating and scratching and punishing… of sharp teeth, bared in fury and ruthless cruelty, tinged with blood and gold and malevolence.

Of the violation of her body, and the promise of _more_.

Well. Perhaps not the _last_ monster she wanted to meet.

Forcing back another tremor of illness and desolation, Frisk dragged her feet through the deep, clinging snow to the path, stretching off into town in one direction and around a bend in the tall, dark trees in the other, a sign at the bend declaring it to be the direction to both Waterfall, Hotland, the Core, and New Home.

Wanting nothing more than to take off in that direction immediately, she let out a sigh, clutched the blanket protecting her from the cold (mostly, at least; the snow was already soaking into her insufficient shoes and the bottom of the comforter, making it cling in icy wrinkles to her ankles) closely around her shivering shoulders, and walked into the quiet, shadowed village, sticking as closely to the edges of the path as possible, clinging to shadows and hoping the blanket covered as much of her features as it seemed to.

The familiar face of the skeleton brothers’ home was swiftly passed, Frisk’s eyes avoiding looking at its façade (she didn’t want the memory she had of it to be tarnished, a once open and welcoming place changed by this twisted, malicious universe), and it wasn’t long until she was passing the hulking shapes of homes and businesses, draped with snow and icicles and the clinging, persistent night.

She snorted to herself in amusement when she noticed that the library sign was misspelt (Lirbarby, interestingly), an analogous similarity that brought fond memory to her heart, but sank further into her impromptu hood at the morose, cloying feeling the rest of the once happy town had once held, graffiti and broken shutters and shattered glass standing out against weathered, uncared for, and ramshackle residences.

Every business she passed by either had heavy locks on the doors and windows, or were boarded up completely, and one of the houses, gaping and stripped down to its base boards (like a gutted carcass, picked clean by scavengers), was covered in burn marks, its roof fallen in and its windows, like staring voids, black and empty.

There were no monsters about yet, though there was music and laughter emanating from beyond the brightly lit, neon lined windows of Grillby’s (Frisk raised her brows at the sight of how seedy and disreputable the once carefully cared for bar and grill was); Frisk walked on the opposite side of the road of the restaurant before passing into the main square of the town, smiling to herself at the sight of the small, decorated pine tree at the center of the clearing of houses.

It shone like a beacon, surrounded by brightly colored packages and hung with shining bulbs and baubles and strings of tinsel… but as she walked closer to the decoration, Frisk’s smile wavered, dropping from her face and into stricken horror.

The tree itself was long dead, burned and needless and painted charcoal black. Each of the decorations that hung from it was painted with a grotesque face, most screaming or writhing in agony, and the tinsel was made of barbed wire, stained with rust and other, darker red marks.

At the base of the tree, the “presents” gathered in haphazard, misshapen lumps, a mockery of joy and peace; most looked like weapons, rocks, or some twisted combination of the two, but some seemed to be cleverly designed traps, one already set off (a cruel amalgam of steel, sharpened wooden stakes, and chains) and covered in both dried blood and dust.

Gods… what had _happened_ here?

Frisk held a hand to her mouth, backing away from the tree with tears and revulsion in her eyes, and rapidly strode down the corridor of homes that led to the entrance of the town, passing the road that led to the rushing river and Ice Wolf’s station; she could hear the heaving of the waves of the quickly flowing torrent from where she was, and the occasional splash of an ice block being thrown into its churning rapids.

She glanced up at the quiet, darkened inn as she passed it by, eyeing the storage box that sat next to it as well (again, no save star manifested itself when she drew near to where one had once shone… another difference. Another oddity that she didn’t understand), before looking, with hopeful intent, at the general store, now shivering so hard that she could barely keep her teeth from chattering.

As expected, the store lights were already turned on (Bonnie had always been an early riser, and was almost as fond of a profit as Muffet), the sign in the front window proclaiming the shop to be open and ready for business.

Thank the gods. From the way the rest of the town had looked, she had started to fear that the rabbit monster and her family might have had to either flee or had been killed.

Frisk nodded to herself, then turned on her heel and headed out of town, over the bridge that crossed one of the rivulets springing from the river, striding past the sign that proclaimed welcome to the town of Snowdin.

‘Welcome to ~~Snowdin~~ Hell’, it said, splashed and corrected with what she hoped was crimson paint, and pierced with so many broken, rusted knives along its border that it looked like it was grinning back at her when she dared to glance at it, jagged and sharp.

Frisk shuddered again, stepping carefully around a slick of ice, and turned back to the slightly brighter path ahead, swallowing at her nervousness as she approached, with caution, the greatest of the Dog Guards’ posts.

Please… _please_ still be there…

Frisk reached the outskirts of her one-time friend’s camp, clinging to the tree line before leaning around it to look out over the snow poff littered clearing.

Greater Dog had always had a fondness for playing in snow, and for making ideal hiding spots from which to spring on his quarry unprepared, and had long ago decided to combine both sports into one, mastering the technique of hiding himself under nearly any terrain, though snow was his specialty.

She was glad to see that he had retained that love… or so she hoped. Were the piles of strategically placed snow trapped too? It seemed like nearly everything here was…

Carefully, guardedly, and with held breath, Frisk snuck into the clearing, eyes trained on the small, rusty red doghouse she could see pushed up against the tall, imposing shadow of the forest wall.

As she drew nearer to her target, one of the smaller, more well protected snow poffs (it was flanked by three others, for “reassurance”, he had yipped to her once), a large, drooling snout came into view, protruding from the dog house and decorated not just with a wide, deep scar across the nose, but long, sharp, wicked looking fangs that glinted in the dawning luminescence of morning in the Underground.

Frisk sucked in a nervous whimper at the vision, not wanting to see anything beyond that muzzle, and squatted next to the pile of snow she had trekked out to find, adjusting her grip on the blanket so that she was still sufficiently covered (the ripped, filthy sweater dress was meant to be worn with either pants or leggings, and as such left nearly nothing to the imagination without them; her lack of panties made the situation nearly irredeemable, leaving the girl in a very self-conscious state).

Slowly, warily, and with an ear cocked towards the far off sleeping monster (he was snoring, which would have been adorable if his exhalations hadn’t been vicious growls, his upper lip curling over his yellowed, needle sharp fangs), she picked up a stick from the ground and prodded it cautiously into the pile of snow before her, ready to jump away if a trap sprang.

No way was she going to just stick her hand into the poff and take the risk of a bear trap (or something equally cruel and horrifying) closing around her arm.

She felt around for a moment, heart in her throat and blood thrilling (she nearly jumped out of her skin when Greater Dog snorted, rolling onto his side in his tiny house), before accepting that there was likely no trap and dropped the stick, delving a hand into the snow to grasp for the bag that had always been there before, that had always let her buy an extra piece of food for herself before her “fight” with Papyrus, in her world.

Hope returned again to her soul, flaring in her freezing blood, when her hand closed around the drawstring sack she was looking for, and Frisk, grinning, pulled the small bag of money free from the powdered ice that had ensconced it, the weight of the gold inside settling her worrying heart.

She opened it and quickly counted it (thirty gold more… this would definitely get her what she needed, and maybe a little more) before dropping it into the one good pocket she had on her dress to join her other saved money and stood, again creeping out of the steadily more brightly lit field with one eye and ear on the slumbering pooch behind her.

She escaped without incident, surprising considering how strong GD’s nose was (or maybe not… she hadn’t showered the entire time she had been in the Underground, and probably smelled more like dirt, sweat, and Sans than she did herself), and practically sauntered back into town, spirits buoyed.

At this rate, she’d be halfway through Waterfall before Sans even realized she was gone.

Frisk sneered at that, scorning his claim of ownership over her and his apparently fervent belief that she need do everything he bid (he had a nasty surprise coming if he thought for a _second_ that she was going to lay down and accept his decrees, no matter the harm he did her body and mind), and spat over the railing of the bridge pridefully before realizing, belatedly, that someone was watching her, leaned against the crumbling, waist high wall just outside town.

A chill of foreboding ran down her spine, spiking her awareness and fear back into play, and she nervously pulled the bedcover back over her head, having slipped a bit in her careless indulgence.

The person, a rabbit monster that she recognized almost immediately (Tiffany, if she recalled correctly… had a baby brother that she used to walk around on a leash), continued watching her from under heavily made up, bagged eyelids, a cigarette hanging between her lips and her arms folded under her breasts.

She was dressed provocatively, the high cut of her skirt and the low cut of her top ensuring that anyone that saw her was aware of the state of her underwear (that is, nonexistent), and casually flipped a long, flopping ear over her shoulder with a toss of her head.

“Look pretty cold there, sweetums. I could warm you up real good… for the right price, of course,” she called out in an attempt at seduction as Frisk drew nearer to her, looking her up and down seedily, and Frisk flinched back, shocked and dismayed.

Was… was she… selling herself? Gods… the Tiffany she knew was a proud creature, and would never stoop to this…

Where was her brother? The tiny little bunny that she had carried around with her everywhere?

“O-oh, no… just going to the store, thank you…” she muttered in return, ducking her head and shuffling along the road, a chill going down her spine (her brother was far too young to be left alone, and she knew for a fact the two were orphaned…), and the rabbit monster let out a huff, shrugging and taking another drag of her cigarette.

“Suit yourself, cutie. I’ll be here all day if you change your mind,” she crooned, sending Frisk an exaggerated wink, and the girl, pulling nervously at her blanket, nodded shakily before walking quickly the rest of the way to the store, shouldering her way inside the moment that she was able to properly grasp the doorknob (her hands were shaking, numb from the cold and the shock of the state of this place both).

Thank the gods… she could really use a Cinnamon Bunny after all this upset and running around in the cold. Frisk’s stomach rumbled in accord with the thought, and she pulled the heavy door of the shop closed behind her, shutting out the cold, the warped town of Snowdin, and her fears all at once (at least for the moment).

The warmth that greeted her, sinking into her skin from the roaring fire in the hearth behind the counter, nearly made her cry with relief, the only thing keeping her from jumping the counter to crouch next to the flames being the fleshy, scowling form of her old friend Bonnie, though the hands on her hips and the fervent glare on her face told her they _definitely_ weren’t friends anymore.

The before bright, flowery monster now looked haggard and sleep deprived, her eyes quick, sunken, and sharp, like a hunted animal; her lustrous purple fur was dark and matted, her normally manicured nails clawed and sharp. She wore an apron over her short, lank dress, stained with off-color, suspicious looking splotches of color, and her wide brimmed, black hat, usually a lovely sunhat, was frayed at the edges and covered most of her face in shadow.

She set down the mallet she had been hefting next to a slab of some sort of meat (well, that explained the need for the apron… and at least some of the stains), sharp gaze dragging over Frisk’s ragged, dirty appearance with clear disdain, and let out a derisive snort.

“Ugh… _scrounger_. Whataya want? We don’t appreciate window shoppers, so if ya don’t have any gold, hit the damn road,” she snapped, his voice slightly nasally but agonizingly familiar (Bonnie… what has happened to you…?), and Frisk swallowed back her nervousness as best she could, approaching the counter and digging her money out of her pocket with her free hand, setting it on the countertop with shaking fingers.

“I… I have money. I just need some clothes, and… some food?” she murmured, avoiding her old friend’s gaze in favor of looking around the shop (there was an astounding amount of weapons hung from the walls, everything from knives to war hammers), and the rabbit monster, a greedy gleam stealing into her gaze, immediately snatched up one of the loose coins and bit at it, testing its validity.

She seemed satisfied when she pulled the gold piece from her mouth, jerking her head to the left and hands descending to count out the rest of the money that had been placed before her.

“Whatever. Clothes racks are in the back,” she said dismissively, shifting the coins into piles with an eager paw, and Frisk stood staring at her for a moment longer, sadness and confusion coiling in her mind, before shuffling through a doorway next to the counter, letting herself into the bulk and sundry area of the store.

There were several round, metal racks hung with clothes stuffed into the back of the room, warring with crates, shelves, and carts full of other merchandise, and Frisk walked over to them with relief, the thick, furred, warm clothes a sight for sore eyes.

From the front of the store, Frisk could hear Bonnie talking to herself, mumbling about her (“Stupid city slicker… comin’ down to the woods without boots or gloves or even a good coat. Dumbass.”), but she paid the irritable rabbit monster little attention as she scanned the materials in front of her, only glad that her hasty disguise seemed to have worked thus far.

Oddly, most of the clothes were colored in shades of red, black, yellow, or brown (edgy much?), and though Frisk preferred brighter colors, especially fond of purple and blue, now was definitely not the time to be picky, and as such flipped through the racks enthusiastically, searching out articles in her size.

Most of the clothes were far too large for her, the opposite extreme in numerous quantity as well (though most of the smaller articles were striped, so she couldn’t wear those anyway), but she managed to find a pair of black jeans with only minor tears, a warm, knitted sweater in a dulcet maroon, and a thick, fur lined black parka with a great deal of pockets and a large hood, certainly enough to cover her face.

After gathering together a pair of knobbly socks, some overly lacy and scant panties (they didn’t have any bras in her size, unfortunately), and a set of boots only one size too large in addition to her clothes, Frisk dragged her finds back up to the front of the store, setting them on the counter for the monster to ring up as she went over to look at a display of scarves, mittens, and hats, searching for a set that would suit her needs.

As she searched, her hand hovered over a long red scarf, folded haphazardly among the pile of others; she stared at it in silence for a long moment, something itching and prodding at the back of her mind.

It looked familiar… too familiar. It looked almost like the one Papyrus had worn, in her world…

It had been his favorite accessory, before they’d all left the Underground. He had left it tied around the doorknob of his house, sentimental and reluctant to let the only home he’d always known go.

Just looking at it here, though, lying rumpled and flickering in the dim light of the fireplace, made sickness seep again into her abdomen, a strange, out of place flash of memory racing through her mind’s eye (blood and dust and hatred and R E V E N G E and Sans, his smile hard and cold and devoid of the love she knew and craved), and Frisk flinched away from the blood red scarf, deliberately piling several others on top of it to hide it and choosing a black wrap, dotted with stars, instead.

She didn’t want to know what that had been about… must be the hunger getting to her.

Gathering it and her other choices, a pair of gloves and a pullover beanie that matched her new scarf, Frisk went back up to the counter to set them among her other purchases, looking hopefully up at Bonnie, who was wearing a grim, cruel smile that she didn’t entirely like, the money bag Frisk had brought with her bouncing in her palm.

Self-consciously, Frisk pulled the coverlet further over her face, shifting from foot to foot.

“Um, I… could I get these too? Please?” she asked tentatively, pushing the accessories she had chosen closer to the rabbit monster, and paled when Bonnie shook her head at her slowly, her slow smile curling into nastiness.

“You don’t have the cash, idiot. I’ll give you the coat for this lot, but nothin’ else,” she declared, pushing the coat towards her and pulling the rest of the clothing back behind the counter, and Frisk froze, stunned and confused.

 _No_ … no, she needed the other things too, two hundred and thirty gold was more than enough to cover these things… she’d been dealing in monster currency for almost a decade, she _knew_ she was right…

“What? But… please, I need…” she started to protest, clutching at her blanket and feeling a cold wash of fear and unease run through her (the coat would help her stay warm, but she still didn’t have any pants, underwear, or good shoes; her toes were freezing already, and wouldn’t make the journey to Waterfall in safety), but Bonnie was unmoving, folding her arms over her copious chest and sneering as she cut Frisk off with a click of her tongue.

“This ain’t a charity, bitch, it’s a business. If I started giving my wares away willy nilly, I’d be out of a job. Take it or leave it; you’re lucky I’m giving you the coat at all,” she growled, biting and final, and Frisk closed her eyes, her shoulders drooping in defeat. She didn’t have the time, or the strength, to argue.

She’d… she’d just have to wrap the blanket around her legs and hope for the best… maybe she’d only lose a few toes to the hoarfrost.

“…alright. Thank you,” she muttered, dread and reluctance in her voice, and turned away from the counter to pull the blanket from her body, reaching for the coat on the counter and keeping her eyes down, on the floor near her feet (there were drips from her passage soaking into the floorboards, she noticed idly), but before she could pull the parka over even one hand, Bonnie let out a strangled noise, somewhere between a choke and a gasp, staring between the collar locked around the base of her neck and bite mark on her shoulder, bared by the ripped neckline of her sweater dress.

The rabbit monster backed up against one of the shelves behind the counter in what appeared to be dismay, gaze riveted to the indentation of teeth Sans had left on her flesh (Frisk flushed, humiliated that someone had seen it, and tried vainly to pull the neckline of her torn dress closed to cover the wound), one hand, shaking and tremulous, rising to point at it.

“What… what is that?” she choked out, her non-pointing hand rising to clasp at her chest as her anxiety multiplied, and Frisk, flushing even darker, ducked her head into her limp, tangled hair, ashamed and feeling sick again.

How was she supposed to explain this? She wasn’t going to tell the rabbit monster that she’d been sexually assaulted, that was for sure.

“…I, um…” she began, fidgeting and wanting nothing more than to sprint out the door behind her, but was cut off again when Bonnie, frightened tears now pricking at her beady eyes, let out a tiny, fearful sob, looking with clear recognition at the collar around her neck again.

“You’re…it can’t be. Who… who marked you?” she queried shakily, and Frisk’s brows lowered, confusion and alarm sinking into her mind.

What was she talking about?

Marked? She wasn’t marked, she knew she wasn’t. Sans had always been so careful with his teeth around her neck, insisting that he had to be, to avoid the potential of losing control of his instincts and marking her on accident; he wanted to give her a mark that was both willing and painless, one that she could remove, at will, if she wished to.

_“it’ll **always** be your choice, babe. i won’t make you stay if you lose interest, if you get tired of my amazing jokes… if you don’t love me anymore. i swear. always your choice.”_

She’d always been so exasperated, when he had said that, like she was going to change her mind. When explained why they couldn’t sleep together yet, why he couldn’t just bite her and be done with it; he’d always looked so horrified at the thought of hurting her, of causing her any pain or unease, though, that she hadn’t persisted long, succumbing to his insistence that they wait and be patient.

But now Bonnie was saying that she was?

Frisk could only stare back at the clearly panicking rabbit monster, tilting her head and blinking repeatedly… until realization sunk into her, belated and unwilling and _angry_.

That _bastard_.

Sans… this Sans… he had bitten her while he had been violating her, had sunk his fangs into her skin and marred her flesh with a wound that would scar and remain forever, too large to heal completely.

A mark. He had marked her.

Frisk, furious and affronted and even more hurt than her strained muscles and freezing skin attested to (how _dare_ he…), raised one hand to the bite on her shoulder for the first time, her fingertips tingling with sparks of both magic and tension as she touched the agitated, raised tears in her skin.

Did this mean that he was her soulmate too, as she had fearfully speculated while being held underneath the harsh, cruel skeleton monster on the floor? Did this mean that she… that she could never be with her Sans again?

Could she only be with this demonic incarnation of her love, forced to remain against her will?

Ire and frustration and bitterness warring in her aching heart, Frisk gritted her teeth, shaking her head resolutely.

No. She wouldn’t be with him, the monster that had harmed and wronged her so grievously. The beast that had stolen any choice she had in the matter.

Her captor. Her torturer. Her _rapist_.

She would get back to her Sans. They would figure this out, like they always had, and they would be together again. She just knew it.

…she had to.

“Sans, I guess,” she growled beneath her breath, dropping her hand away from the irritated wound on her shoulder, swearing vengeance and hatred on that… that _asshole_ , and Bonnie let out a whimper in response, an actual, _fearful_ whimper, and hastily strode back up to the counter to retrieve the clothes she had hidden behind it to practically throw them at Frisk, along with the bag of gold she had taken with her purchase.

“Take it. Take it all. No charge,” she spat, cowering behind an attempt at a condescending snarl (Frisk could still see her trembling, her fur standing on end and her ears twitching in agitation), and Frisk stared back at the monster in alarm, scrambling to catch the various articles of clothing that had suddenly been shoved into her arms.

What the hell was going on here? She felt incredibly lost, tossed from her anger at Sans and straight into confusion over this happenstance.

What did it matter if Sans had marked her?

“…I don’t understand. I thought you said…” she said slowly, stepping back up to the counter to place the bundle of clothes and shoes back into its surface so she could figure out what was happening (not that she wasn’t grateful for the gesture, she would certainly be taking advantage of it), and Bonnie flinched back from her approach, again sinking back to cringe against the shelving unit behind her, her frightened tears falling to stain the fur around her eyes.

“Take whatever you want. Just don’t tell Sans I tried to short change you. Please… _please_ don’t tell him. He’ll have my head if he finds out, **_please_** … he’ll kill my whole family…” she plead tremulously, looking twitchily over her shoulder as though expecting to see the aforementioned skeleton monster standing right behind her, and Frisk let out a small, shocked noise, her hand jumping to her mouth.

She was so afraid of Sans “finding out” that she had almost been scammed out of her money that she was giving away all of her merchandise? The Bonnie she knew would never have done that unless she was genuinely terrified her family was in danger, and never, in a million years, would have been afraid of _Sans_.

Frisk’s beliefs sobered at that track of thought, though, remembering his grin as he had torn Flowey into pieces… his laughter as he had beaten her nearly to death. The way he spoke of the other monsters, uncaring and listless and dismissive.

Was… was he that terrible? Did he regularly kill other monsters, wreck unholy vengeance on those that wronged him, so much that the other inhabitants of the Underground were _scared_ of him?

Her mind protested the thought immediately, thinking of how well liked her Sans had been, how everyone had always been ecstatic to see him, wherever he went (well, besides Undyne, but that was only because he tended to sleep on the job)… but no.

They weren’t the same… she had to remember that. She couldn’t afford to forget that again, not after… after last night. She should expect none of the same behavior from this Sans as her own version showed.

Again, though, she couldn’t help but wonder… what had happened, to change him so? What had twisted her love so cruelly and harshly as to form him into the beast that had held her prisoner for over a month, that had beaten and abused and raped her?

She felt a surge of pity before she could stop it, her soul pulsing with compassion and empathy.

It must have been terrible.

Shaking away the well of emotion that had no business being associated with the demon that had so mistreated her (focus, there’s no time to be feeling sorry for him… remember what he did, what he will do again if he catches you), Frisk looked back to Bonnie with a small, sorrowful frown, brushing several layers of the clothing on the counter in front of her aside to retrieve the bag of coins that had been thrown back at her.

“I swear I won’t tell him… but I need some other things, too. You can have all the gold, I don’t want you to lose your business because of a misunderstanding,” she assured the cowering rabbit monster, holding out and shaking the bag encouragingly, and Bonnie blinked, looking disbelieving and hesitant, but reached out to take the bag again, carefully avoiding making contact with Frisk’s hand.

“…thank you. Get whatever ya need, I’ll be up here when you’re ready. You can dress in the changing room back there too, if you’d like. …it’s cold out there, you shouldn’t go back outside dressed like that,” she muttered, seeming to be genuinely stunned by this turn of events (though there was suspicion still burning in her gaze, cautious and fearful), and Frisk nodded mutely, gathered the pile of clothes before her into her arms, and turned to go back into the storage area of the store, though her heart was once again lifting into higher spirits at this turn of events.

She really needed to stop getting so excited over every little change… the roller coaster of emotion she was going through today was giving her whiplash.

Quickly, but with careful thought (there were so many things she needed, but her load needed to be light enough to be able to run at a moment’s notice), Frisk picked up a backpack she had seen on a shelf earlier and started to load it up with supplies and sundry that she would need for her journey, gleefully stuffing more socks, underwear, and an extra sweater into the bag alongside the bandages, rubbing alcohol, bottles of water, and pain pills she was now able to get.

She picked up a book and a puzzle compendium as well (she loved to do the Junior Jumble puzzles, they were far easier than the crosswords that Sans did in the paper every morning) before she slipped into the “changing room”, which consisted of a closet with a ragged shower curtain hung across the space a door would usually be mounted, to change into her new outfit.

She shucked off her destroyed sweater dress after she had pulled the curtain shut behind her, tossing it onto the floor with disgust; it had been her favorite outfit, once… she’d been on the way to attend a party at her mother’s house the night she had been spirited away to the Underground again.

How had that even happened…?

Shaking the thought away for the moment, though her curiosity surged at the wonderment (she could barely remember anything from the time that she had been climbing into her car to when she had awoken, with a jolt, in the field of dead buttercups in the Ruins), Frisk ran her hands over her body in way of inspection, wincing at the bruises and scrapes that had remained after eating the healing food Sans had brought her, following his… attack.

It had, at the very least, healed the worst of the damage, which she was grateful for. She had been so injured after that that she couldn’t even move… but she would need more food to heal the rest of her injuries, the scratches and dark pressure marks dug into her hips and thighs.

She would be able to keep them from getting infected with the alcohol, but she would really rather heal them completely.

Scratching idly at the bite on her shoulder, which was really starting to itch (it was also the only wound that seemed to not have been affected by the magic of the food she had eaten; must have something to do with it being a mark, or something like that), Frisk uncapped the bottle of water she had picked up and poured some into one cupped hand before scrubbing it over her arms and torso, washing at least a little of the dirt and grime that had accumulated on her body away before she put on her new clothes.

As she worked the water down her body, the brown, brackish residue dripping onto and through the floorboards at her feet, Frisk’s wetted hands shivered to a halt at her thighs, her throat tightening and sickness threatening at her heaving abdomen again.

There were stains of crimson trailing down the insides of her legs, their origin all too clear; she knew, just from the coloration, that the dried evidence of her occupation the night before wasn’t blood, that they were far more sordid than that.

As she looked over the dried tracks of pale red and slightly glowing magic Sans had left on her, the same sense of wetness and slick sensation that she had felt in the doorway of the shack came over her again, and down the inside of the opposite thigh that Frisk was considering, a drip of even more leftover magic drooled from her folds, thick and sparking with power and tingling against her flesh.

Frisk barely held back a retch at the sight, scrambling to grasp for the dress she had thrown to the floor so she could wipe the disgusting liquid from her body; she didn’t want to think about what it was, how it had gotten inside of her, and did her best to hold back the tears that again threatened her composure, scrubbing harshly at her skin and sniffling to force her despair _back_.

It was okay… it was over now, he couldn’t hurt her anymore.

Finally wiping the last traces of Sans’s cum from her body (just thinking of the word made her shut her eyes tight, shaking her head rapidly to clear the consideration away), Frisk dropped the filthy material in her hands to the floor again and dressed in her new, clean clothes quickly, the comfort of soft material and warm layers settling her turmoil for the moment, at the very least.

She was covered, insulated against the cold, and disguised. This was good. This was very good.

Reassured, at least the smallest amount, by her momentary success, Frisk put away her supplies in her ragged, but strong, knapsack, wrapped her new scarf around her neck, and kicked the dress she had been wearing into the dark, hidden corner of the changing room before walking back out into the main area of the shop.

Bonnie had been busy while she had been dressing, picking up and folding the blanket that Frisk had dropped on the floor and putting away the meat that she had been tenderizing, and was dusting her shelves, more out of nervous idleness than actual need.

She looked over at Frisk when she walked back into the room, nodding at her stiffly, before turning back to her shelves, still shivering every once in a while as she ran the feather duster she held over her wares.

Frisk watched her for a moment, considering the weapons stacked on the storage areas (should she get one of those as well? She had a feeling she would need it, in this violent, harsh Underground… but no. She’d make do without, she always had), before approaching the counter again, looking around behind the counter hopefully for the tray of baked goods that Bonnie usually sold.

She didn’t see one immediately, couldn’t even smell the before ever present scent of baking breads and thick, saccharine sugars that permeated the shop in her memory.

“Do you have any Cinnabunnies ready? Want to grab something to eat before I get going as well,” she asked tentatively of the monster resolutely ignoring her from across the counter, moving the blanket set on the top of it to the side (Bonnie could have the thing, she had no interest in carrying it around), and, brows furrowing, Bonnie turned to look at Frisk, her hand stilling.

“…do I have _what_? I don’t know what that is. I could whip up some Sinner’s Rolls, ‘spose, but I don’t have the dough prepared… people usually only come in here to get knives and mittens. It’d be a few hours to make, though, and… I imagine Sans isn’t going to want you out of the house for that long,” she observed, her eyes glittering with something that looked like fearful understanding, and Frisk, at the mention of his name (damn… he would be waking up soon, if he wasn’t up already… she needed to get going), shuddered against her will, her gaze dropping to the dented counter top.

Damn. She’d just have to wait until Waterfall to get something to eat... if she made it. Her hands were already trembling, her surging endorphins having drained her body of nearly all its energy, and almost on cue, her stomach rumbled, resisting the idea that she wouldn’t get to eat for nearly another day.

Frisk flushed at the sound, ducking her face into the folds of her scarf, and placed a hand on her concave, empty stomach.

“…no. No, I can’t wait that long,” she said with defeat layered in her voice, shuffling her feet against the rough floorboards, and Bonnie fell into silence for a moment, her gaze flicking over Frisk’s face.

She looked almost confused, eyes narrowing and head tilting… before sighed, raising a hand to pinch at the bridge of her snout, whiskers twitching, then shook her head, reopening her eyes to look, with pity and empathy both, down at Frisk.

“Tell you what, honey. Go on down to Grillby’s, and get yourself something there. Not the best food, but it’ll fill you up, and it’s fast. Plus, you can put it on Sans’s tab. He keeps one open there all the time. He’d need to, with how much he’s there,” she told her gently, the nearest thing to kindness entering her tone that Frisk had heard in over a month, and Frisk snapped her head up to look at the softly smiling rabbit monster, her familiar compassion giving her a surge of hope.

Maybe this place wasn’t as irredeemable as she had thought…

It was an interesting point to find out that Sans hung out at Grillby’s all the time (guess some things never changed… it made her slightly uncomfortable that he had another similarity with her Sans), but honestly, Frisk hadn’t even considered stopping into the grill. She wanted to avoid speaking to as many monsters as she could, so she could escape without incident or the chance of being recognized.

But she wasn’t sure she’d make it all the way to the next opportunity for sustenance. She felt incredibly weak despite her windfall here at the general store, and collapsing in the snow from lack of nourishment was just as bad as trying to stump through the cold with no pants or socks on.

Grillby’s it was, then. At least it was early… there was very little chance she’d run into anyone there besides the owner of the establishment himself.

She wondered, idly, how much Grillz had changed in this place, the gentle, soft spoken fire elemental one of her closest monster friends in her world.

Guess she’d find out soon enough.

“Thank you, I didn’t even think about Grillby’s… it’s just what I need. You’ve been such a help,” she replied with a small smile of her own, and Bonnie nodded her head sharply, looking away and to a pen sitting on the countertop, rolling the writing utensil under a nervous paw.

“…just remember what you said. That you aren’t gonna tell your mate, about… what I was doing,” she muttered, fear sending tremors through her plea, and Frisk, lip curling at the mention of her “mate” (like hell was he ever going to be that to her), held up her hands in assurance, shaking her head.

“I wouldn’t do that to you. I promise,” she soothed the monster, shouldering her filled backpack, and then waved a hand in farewell, walking to the door outside with confidence, pulling her hood up over her head and covering the lower half of her face with her star studded scarf.

The wind and snow blew into the room when she pulled the door open, revealing an even brighter lit road and the front of the house across the way (painted a lurid, if faded, yellow, and decorated with a giant, spray painted effigy of a stylized penis), before Frisk marched back out into the world, feeling far more confident and self-possessed than she had the last time she had stepped out of a door.

Bonnie watched her go, furry brows beetled and perplexity twisting her soul. She had felt odd the whole time that the small, strange monster had been in her shop, memories that she couldn’t recall ever having experienced before pressing at her.

She felt like she knew the girl, and liked her quite a bit, even though she’d never met her before.

Shaking the strange, frightening occurrence away (her instinct told her that she needed to close up shop and flee immediately, untrusting of the girl’s promise, but her soul told her all would be well), Bonnie went back to her dusting, thinking of how close she had come to death that day and shuddering, pity again clutching at her heart when she imagined that poor, sweet girl in the clutches of the homicidal, cruel claws of Sans the skeleton.

Fate had not been kind to her.

“…bizarre girl. Too good for that bastard, that’s for sure.”

Outside the shop, Frisk was walking briskly down the road back into Snowdin (she had nodded to Tiffany as she passed by, though the bunny had been occupied, talking to a bear monster that had looked interested in her… wares…), pulling her hood lower over her head with her gloved hands. There were far more monsters about now, walking down the road in packs, unlocking shop doors, running around and playing in the snow; the cacophony of a busy, awakening village filled the air, punctuated by howls and laughter and the opening and shutting of doors.

As she walked, her heart sank slightly at how much brighter the Underground was from the time that she had gone into Bonnie’s shop; she had spent far too long inside, bargaining and dressing and talking to the monster.

At the very least, no one was looking her way with more than mild interest, the children romping through the snow drifts circling her a few times before leaving her alone to ambush an annoyed looking horse monster and a horned, grinning monster with wickedly sharp eyes asking if she was selling (she hadn’t realized what he meant until she’d already walked past him, and tugged her parka closer to herself after she had, flushing demurely), so at least the time had been well spent.

She had little worry, now that she was some distance from the skeleton brother’s house (she’d have been concerned about running into Sans on the road, but he always teleported to work, unconcerned with wasting magic on walking), and took some time to look around at the milling, chattering monsters as she passed them by, making her way into the central courtyard of the town again.

She recognized a great deal of them, from appearance and occupation both.

There was the present counter, though he looked slightly more weathered and sharp than when she had known him… he was setting up another trap under the decorated tree, talking to himself below his breath.

There went MK, dressed in his usual striped sweater and tripping over his own feet… though his clumsiness was only accentuated by his missing eye and hobbled, stunted leg, the spikes on his back and tail splintering and his teeth sharp and permanently bloodstained.

There was the rabbit that had always watched Tiffany when she was out with her brother, leaning against his house and viewing the world with bloodshot, baggy eyes, his hands shaking as he held out a tin cup to passerby, begging for coins to fuel his addictions.

Frisk dropped her eyes to the ground as she passed the latter by, pity clutching at her heart. Gods… these monsters…

They were miserable. Far more miserable than they had been in her world. What was wrong with this place? Even the air felt darker and poisonous, like there was a miasma of shadow and evil clogging the atmosphere.

Tears pressed at her as she dragged her feet past the entrance to the shortcut through town, her considerations distracting her attentiveness… so much so, that she almost didn’t hear the voice coming through the shortcut itself.

“…AND WEARING THOSE FILTHY RAGS ALL THE TIME. I SWEAR, IF I WASN’T THERE TO PICK UP AFTER YOU, THE ENTIRE HOUSE WOULD BE IN RUINS. TAKE SOME PRIDE IN YOURSELF,” someone spat from just out of sight, loud and close and _familiar_ , and Frisk, jolted from her thoughts, looked with alarm at the entrance to the shortcut path that she was lingering in front of, trepidation and unease sinking into her flesh.

Was that… Papyrus?

Her question was answered the next moment when a voice answered him, a much deeper, harder, and undeniably angry voice, one that she was so familiar with that she would know its rumbling tones in her sleep… it thundered through her nightmares, haunted her waking terrors, and sent her wheeling backwards immediately, ducking around the edge of the shortcut house and towards the outcropping of the woods that extended behind the small entrance, panic and dread thrilling in her blood.

 ** _Sans_** …

“i’ma say it one more time, paps, so listen close this time… i don’t fuckin’ care what you think. what i do is my business, so butt the fuck out,” came his response, tinged with annoyance and what Frisk knew to be a warning of violence, and she scrambled to reach the edge of the trees even more frantically, having to abandon her backpack when one of the straps caught on the edge of the small building, no time to try to untangle it.

It fell to the ground behind her as she finally made it to the tree line, vaulting into a copse of tall, thorned bushes, and just in time, too; as she fell to the ground, crunching leaves and ice and bark underneath her, Papyrus emerged from the shortcut, stepping onto the path and towering like a nightmare, harsh and cold and glaring behind himself.

He was, somehow, even taller in this hellscape of a universe, given even more unnecessary height from the heels of his tall, buckled boots; he was as sharp and scarred as his brother was, bearing fangs and claws and cracks in his bones where they were bared by his buffed, spikey breastplate and low cut, tight leather pants. A ragged, crimson cape was draped around his shoulders, shifting in the breeze, and his hands were encompassed in long red gloves, folded across his broad, armored chest.

“YOU HAD BETTER START CARING, BROTHER,” he snapped in a tight, growling retort, sneering and derisive, and Sans chose that moment to shoulder his way out of the shortcut as well, glaring and snarling around the cigarette drooping from his clenched, bared fangs.

Frisk shuddered at the sight of him and his clear, raging temper; she could feel his anger from here, could see, around the edge of the tree she was clutching for dear life, that he was at the end of his rope, his magic sparking in his sockets and his wide shoulders tensed under the cover of his fur lined jacket.

He wore a red t-shirt today, emblazoned with a word she couldn’t read entirely, due to his jacket being in the way, a black beanie pulled low over his skull, and a pair of black, ripped jeans (probably the rags Papyrus had mentioned…), though what caught her attention more than his clothes, and even more than his towering temper, was the accessory he had chosen to wear that day, clipped to his belt loops and catching the light of the newly dawned morning, shining dully and threateningly at his side.

It was her chain. The chain she had taken off and left behind in the shed.

He knew. He knew she was gone.

Frisk nearly sobbed in the overwhelming tension of the moment, hurriedly covering her mouth to avoid making any noises, as Sans stood to his full height out on the path, sneering up at his brother and stuffing his hands into his pants pockets.

“or fuckin’ what? what’re ya gonna do? be an even bigger fuckhead? make _worse_ food?” he rejoined, puffing a cloud of smoke out through his nasal cavity casually, and Papyrus let out an affronted gasp, taking a step backwards, as though physically moved by the insult.

He placed a gloved hand on his chest, face set into lofty pride and dynamism.

“HOW DARE YOU?!? I WILL HAVE YOU KNOW THAT MY COOKING IS EXQUISITE, AND YOU ARE PRIVILEDGED… NAY, HONORED, TO BE ABLE TO EAT IT!” he shouted, so loudly that a clump of snow fell from the tree that Frisk was hiding behind, plopping onto her back and making her jump in shock.

The movement caused her coat to scrape against the trunk audibly, and out on the road, Sans stiffened, his skull tilting towards the tree line. His gaze lowered to the ground at his feet, seemingly spontaneous and idle, but the lights in his sockets were bright and sharp, glowing with his temper and his interest both.

“i’d be more honored ta lick the bottom of jerry’s fuckin’ shoes,” he murmured, his gaze scanning the disturbed snow (his sockets were tracing the trail she had left behind when she had fled the path to run into the woods, narrowing when they landed on the backpack she had been forced to leave behind), and Papyrus huffed indignantly, turning away from his older brother in outrage.

“PERHAPS YOU SHOULD THEN, HEATHEN,” he snarled, walking out of sight around the edge of the house next to the shortcut, but Sans didn’t move, his gaze rising to scan the edge of the forest clinically, taking another drag of his cigarette as he did.

The end of it glowed with the same heat as his sockets did as he spotted the broken branches of the bushes Frisk had dived through, a small, victorious grin pulling at his scowl, smoke leaking between his sharpened teeth.

“i’ll get right on it, if ya leave me the fuck alone for a damn minute,” he shot back at his retreating brother, and slowly, deliberately, raised his skull into the air, taking a deep, long inhalation of the cold air through his empty nasal cavity.

The smile that decorated his fanged mouth after his deep breath sent a shiver down Frisk’s spine, the sheer triumph and malice in it making her ill.

Seemingly satisfied, Sans turned from the road, gaze sharp and quick, to take a step into the narrow alley of space that Frisk had fled down, pulling one hand from his pocket to reach down and pick up her backpack, untangling it from the outcropping of loose siding it had caught on with one tug of his hand.

Frisk’s breath froze as he hefted it, looking it over with interest, before unzipping it and glancing into it; he inspected the contents with a clinical eye before grinning even wider and pulling his other hand from his pocket and reaching into the bag to pull a pair of panties from within; he held them up to the light and tsked his tongue, glancing back up at the forest with a derisive smirk.

“thought i told ya you weren’t allowed ta wear these anymore,” he growled below his breath, a cruel, hard laugh escaping him as he fingered the material in his grasp, then stuffed the underwear back into the backpack, zipped it up, and slung it over his shoulder, gaze moving over the tree line, searching for her in the gloom of the forest.

“guess that’s just another fact we’re gonna hafta revisit,” he muttered, an edge of malevolence and warning making the innocuous comment into the threat Frisk knew it was, and took another step towards the forest, smirk only growing in size and viciousness.

He was interrupted in his approach when Papyrus stalked back into view on the road, hands on his hips and gaze roving the milling crowd of newly awakened monsters.

“SANS? WHERE DID YOU GO?” he called out impatiently, tapping a booted toe against the beaten down snow, and Sans’s expression sank from expectant conquest into annoyed exasperation in the space of a second, halting in his advance and turning to look over his shoulder at the taller skeleton monster.

“go on ahead, bro. i gotta check up on somethin’,” he called out, tone tinted with false encouragement, and Papyrus tilted his head towards the sound of his brother’s voice, turning to look at him with suspicious misgiving.

“YOU’RE NOT WANDERING OFF ON ME, LAZEABOUT, YOU’RE GOING TO WORK. YOU’RE LATE AS IT IS,” he demanded, punitive and severe, and Sans, dropping his attempt at accord, spun on his heel and snarled outright, magic flaring and making the trees in the forest behind him creak and groan, shaking dead leaves and snow from their branches.

Frisk scrambled backwards the moment his back was turned, fleeing another row of trees back and panting with tense fear; he clearly knew where she was, and intended to try to capture her again. What was she going to do?

How had he known so _quickly_?

Outside the trees, Sans had advanced a step on his brother, pointing a clawed, threatening finger at him.

“i’m fuckin’ goin’ to, assbag! i just need to look inta somethin’ real fast, it’ll take one fuckin’ second!” he snarled, irate at being questioned and impeded in his quest, and Papyrus, scowling more deeply, let out a frustrated sigh, throwing his hands up into the air and turning to stalk back out of sight.

“…FINE, BUT YOU HAD BETTER BE QUICK. I WILL COME BACK FOR YOU IF YOU TAKE TOO LONG!” he warned from further down the road, so loud that it was impossible not to hear him, and Sans sneered, turning back to his former occupation with a growl of annoyance, mumbled of dissent on his heated, heavy breath.

“couldn’t mind his own damn business if it killed him…you’d think he was my fuckin’ mother…” he snapped, clutching at the strap of the backpack flung over his arm and throwing a poisonous, sparking glare over his shoulder, then turned his gaze back to the edge of the forest, stepping up to the very edge to glare, threateningly, into its depths, scanning the clinging shadows and scattered bushes.

Frisk practically held her breath as his footsteps halted, crunching in the new, deep snow; she could smell the smoke from his cigarette, could feel his magic in the air…

The bite on her shoulder tingled, not in pain, but in something like pleasure, as though recognizing him.

Sans spent a long moment just observing, taking deep, calming drags of his cigarette and breathing heavy, loud breaths, before he spoke, a branch snapping as he took a minute, shuffling step further into the forest; Frisk flinched at the sound, her gloved fingers digging into her cheek as she forcefully kept her mouth closed and her eyes widening, fear thrilling in her blood.

“i know you’re there, bitch. i can smell ya on the air… i can feel your _soul_ ,” he muttered, his voice far calmer than it had been when speaking to his brother. He sounded almost relaxed, casual and serene, but Frisk knew better, knew that her escape had put him into the mood that she had witnessed earlier.

Could still feel his wrath, exuded from him in fits and starts of passion and vengeance.

She made no move to answer, though, pressing her back to the tree she had hidden herself behind and not moving a muscle even as her mind whirled (what did he mean, he could feel her soul? Could he really? How was she ever going to get away if he could do that?), and mere feet away, Sans snorted, another cloud of smoke wafting from his orifices as he breathed out a sigh.

“playin’ innocent, then. heh… fine. not like i need fuckin’ confirmation. i can feel my magic movin’ in your veins… clingin’ to your soul… drippin’ from your _cunt_ ,” he chuckled, amused and nasty, and Frisk’s knees nearly collapsed at the reminder his words shot into her mind, still feeling the disgusting drip of his cum sliding lewdly from her core and down her legs, even nearly fifteen minutes later.

She held back the whimper that threatened her composure at the remembrance, closing her eyes against the sight; she heard him shifting his weight, could practically feel the shadow his size and presence was throwing over the ground behind her, his form silhouetted against the backdrop of the bustling village.

“you’ll never be able ta hide from me. not now… not _ever_ ,” he uttered, almost an assurance to her thoughts of mere moments before ( _no_ … no, she didn’t believe that… this had been a lucky occurrence, he couldn’t really feel that…), then flicked the butt of his burned down cigarette into the dense trees, pulling another from his pocket immediately afterwards.

The butt landed in the snow next to Frisk’s feet, sizzling against the frost and sinking into the powder. The noise made her flinch, her ears straining as she listened desperately to his movements, tensed to run at the first sign that he was going to come any closer.

“you know how this is gonna go, whore. you know ya fucked up. you _know_ the only thing keepin’ me from draggin’ you outta those bushes by your _fuckin’_ hair is the fact that there are people watchin’,” he said around the new cigarette he had placed between his teeth, his voice hardening as he spoke, slipping out of his former levity and into threatening reprimand; the sound of a flint striking metal made Frisk jump in her spot, again giving her location away.

Sans, hearing the shift of material against bark, grinned again, the lighter he had just struck flaring as he held it to the end of his cigarette. His gaze fixed on the location of the noise, a broad, thick pine perhaps twenty feet away, and slid his lighter back into his jacket pocket, taking a drag at the stick of nicotine before pulling it from his mouth and blowing a perfect ‘o’ at the trunk of the tree he was looking at, leaning against the one he stood beside in feigned ease.

“ya know that the second i have ya cornered… you’ll be back under my control. and with you disobeyin’ the way you have…” he crooned antagonistically, replacing his cigarette between his teeth and reaching his hand down to trace along the links of chain hanging from his pants, then locked his gaze on the tree in front of him with intense gravity, his smirk disappearing beneath the weight of a coarse, wrathful glower.

“you know what’s comin’ to ya. i warned ya about what would happen if you tried to run from me, and i sure as fuck’ll be makin’ good on that.”

Frisk, in her hiding spot, shivered in fear and tension both, tears escaping her clenched eyes and running down her cheeks to stain her new scarf and gloves.

She wanted to feel as strong and resistant as she had when she had been free and wandering the town that morning, telling herself that he would never harm her again, but right now, with his presence and his voice and his dominating, threatening reminders holding her hostage, all she could do was remember him ripping her clothes from her body, his hands on her bare skin…

His teeth in her flesh, and his cock buried in her core, punishing and taking and _ravaging_ without quarter or compassion.

This left her feeling weaker than she ever had in her life, the conflicting emotions of fear and desperation and sickness and regret and horror all congealing into a perfect storm of devastating paralysis, her every thought freezing and focusing only on him, the things he could do to her and take from her and pry from her weak, powerless flesh shaking her to her very soul.

She was reduced to a quavering, hapless, crying heap, a mess of feebleness and sentiment that wanted nothing more than to crawl back to him, to allow him his control… and to hope for forgiveness.

Frisk considered it a point in her favor that she was even still standing, her trembling knees knocking together under his intimidation; she congratulated herself even further when she made no move to go to him, to act on the fearful desire of her panicked mind that demanded she answer to him and his coercions.

She nearly jumped again when he spoke after a short, terse silence, the sounds of the town behind them both rising and falling in their day to day conversations.

“but i’m feelin’ magnanimous today. generous, if ya would. so i’m gonna give ya a choice… see if ya learned anythin’ from our time together last night,” he allowed with a hint of amusement in his voice, though even that was twisted by brutality and knowing depravity.

“you can go back to the shed and wait for me. ya do that, wait for me ta come for ya… and i won’t lay a hand on ya. we can pretend this never happened. we’ll pack up, go on our way, and this fuckin’ business’ll be behind us,” he swore, the bark of the tree he was leaned on shifting as he adjusted his position against it, and Frisk’s heart leapt and sank at that option immediately, the promise of no punishment both tempting and dissatisfying at once.

It appealed to the fear sending ice speeding through her veins, to the cowering, submissive creature that was pawing at her mind and begging her to spare them both the pain of another harsh, brutal castigation, but Frisk knew that she would never be able to do that before she even really began to consider it, couldn’t run back to him and live in capitulation to the hard, cold skeleton.

She had to get back to her own world, to her Sans. If she could, she would free the monsters trapped in this hell as well (Sans too, though she hated him and everything about him), but she couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ be this demon’s pet, or mate, or whatever he thought she was going to be to him.

She couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t at least try to escape… it was her role to do or die. It always had been.

Behind her, the monster watching the forest before him carefully for another sign of movement grinned to himself, assured of his offer sinking in… before moving on, tapping the ash off the tip of his cigarette onto the snow at his feet.

“or you can run. you can run from me, and make me chase ya,” he went on, tone again plummeting into aggressive reprimand and fury; his gaze flashed, glutted on magic and furious emotion.

“needless ta say, that ain’t gonna make me happy. needless ta say… i’m gonna be fuckin’ pissed.”

As he spoke, the volume of his voice grew, rising from an intimidating rumble to a thundering, irate snarl; Frisk was frozen to the tree she stood against, already knowing what he was going to say but dreading, despite herself and her attempts at bravado (she wasn’t afraid… he couldn’t intimidate her into going back to him… she… she wasn’t a-afraid…), him speaking his intent.

Sans went on despite her hopes, though, shoving himself away from the tree next to him and taking another, threatening step into the forest, glaring at the back of the tree that his Frisk from his sight; he could taste her fear on the air, feel her heartbeat thrumming like a dying bird’s wings, and grinned in his fury, lusting for blood and vengeance.

“you run from me, slut, and there will be no _fuckin’_ **mercy**. run from me, and i’ll tear apart the fuckin’ underground ta find you. and when i catch ya… and i _will_ catch ya… what i did to you last night will be **_NOTHING_** compared to what i’ll do when i get my hands on your filthy little body,” he barked, his voice growing to a shout of malice and vengeance and absolute, soul deep fury; he stamped his cigarette out against the trunk of the tree next to him, crushing the life out of it in emulated fervor.

“i’ll break your damn legs, and fuck you so hard and for so long you’ll wish you’d never been born. you won’t be runnin’ _anywhere_ after that.”

Frisk let out an audible whimper at his threat, sinking to the ground and holding her head as terror and hard, cold memory overwhelmed her, stealing her breath and bravery and determination; she was left with nothing but her darkest fears, the pain and the defilement and the night of her own imagination.

With visions of the slavery of agony and heartbreak and unwilling, sickening pleasure that her life would be in his hands, if she defied him and forced him to punish her.

No… no, he couldn’t do that to her again… she couldn’t let him… _please_ …

Sans heard her despair in the small, frightened noise that she made, in the slide of her clothes against the tree that she was sheltered behind, and smirked broadly, assured of his victory.

“so make your choice. wait for me, and i’ll forgive ya… or make a break for it, and force me ta fuck some sense into your stupid skull. be smart for once, woman. i ain’t above teachin’ ya the same star forsaken lesson that i did last night,” he warned with finality in his lessened, quieter tone, hands again sliding into his pants pockets; he took one last step forward, so close to her now that he could feel her labored, tremulous breath disturbing the air.

How easy it would be to snatch her now… he just had to reach out, she was right there… but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t have time to secure her before Papyrus came looking for him again, and he couldn’t risk his brother finding her.

As such, he only bent at the waist, leaning over closer to where he knew she had collapsed to the ground, and breathed out a snarl, so close to Frisk that she flinched in shock, the only thing keeping her from stumbling to her feet and sprinting away being her apparent inability to move at all, kept forcefully still by her own distress.

“you’ll learn who ya belong to if it’s the last fuckin’ thing i do,” he threatened in a whisper, assured of her hearing it from their closeness, before standing back to his full height, smirking widely, and turning on his heel to walk back out of the copse of trees, confidence and victory in both his mien and gait.

He paused at the edge of the tree line and looked over his shoulder one last time, though, leering and assertive.

“seeya soon, sugar… don’t play any games you ain’t prepared ta lose.”

And with that last comment, the grinning skeleton monster walked back up to the road, Frisk’s backpack still slung over his broad shoulder, and turned out of sight, whistling pleasantly as he strolled away with a spring in his step.

It truly didn’t matter what she picked now… either way, he had already won.

Frisk, in her place on the ground, though, collapsed into tears for what felt like the hundredth time that day, miserable and terrified and awash in so much emotion that she could hardly contain herself. This wasn’t what she had ever wanted, to be harassed and threatened and demeaned and violated by the monster she had thought she wanted to spend the rest of her life with.

He had promised her so much… so much happiness and love and adoration. And somewhere out there, she knew that was what waited for her, what she would have if she could return to where she belonged. But that place was a far off dream right now. She had been shackled to a beast of a monster, cruel and hard and ferocious in his possessive desire… and who she didn’t have a prayer of escaping.

_“you’ll never be able ta hide from me. not now… not ever.”_

His words sank into her flesh like icy needles, cold and poisonous despite the warmth of the clothes she had bought, and Frisk, normally so strong and valiant and able, wept helplessly, face buried in her knees and soul aching beyond the cage that she would be forced to remain in for the rest of her days.

This was her life now… she may as well go back to the shed and wait for him. Perhaps he was telling the truth and wouldn’t hurt her for trying to escape.

…no.

No, she was better than this. She was fiercer, and above all, more determined than this. She had promised herself, hadn’t she? That no matter what he did, she would keep her head up and hold the faith of her hopes and dreams? She had to. She needed to, for her love, for herself, and for the whole monster race.

And she could.

A light, tiny but persistent in the storm of her woes and melancholy, lit in her soul, warming her whole body and thrusting all but the more lingering of her despairs away, and Frisk, though her body ached and her heart stuttered and her cheeks stung with the extent of her misery, stood from the ground shakily, dusting herself off and wiping at her tears.

She could do this. She had it in her, no matter what happened. She would not be cowed by this Sans’s intimidations, and even if he did catch her again, she would try to escape over and over and over.

He could break her legs. He could rape her until she couldn’t move. He could rip out her very soul and put it in a jar.

She’d never stop trying.

Filled with the glow and urging of her own magic, with the vitality and persistence of her soul’s true power, Frisk nodded her head resolutely, straightened her scarf, and stepped out of the woods, only mourning the loss of her knapsack for a moment before walking back out onto the road that led through Snowdin, marching herself across the courtyard and to the front door of Grillby’s with no fear.

Sans had burned all the fear out of her, with his warnings and threats. She had no more tears to shed. She was made of stone, forged from steel, and would not bow.

Assured and back ramrod straight, Frisk, ignoring the stares she was getting from the monsters out on the street, pulled the door to the bar before her open and stepped inside with her head held high, the shadows of the inside of the building swallowing her as she let the door close behind her.

No matter what… she would stay D E T E R M I N E D.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading <3 more soon, friends!


	11. God in the Machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You will see. You will all see."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's not to the usual length and caliber, but I wanted to do something, since the story turned a year old today. Figured you guys deserved something, while I wait to get my internet back. So here you are, some plot!

* * *

The pools of molten rock burbled and popped in the caverns of Hotland, illuminating the far off cave roofs in fits and starts of golden fire. Rocks fell from the crags and fissures and into the slow moving, steaming rivers of lava as they lapped at the edges of the many steel and stone pathways that wended through the land of fire and machines. Steam hissed from old, forgotten pipes, lasers fired on the unaware and cautious without quarter (Alphys must be in one of her moods, to have turned the traps on), but among the great cacophony of noise and the rush of life, there fell a great quiet belowground, further even than the already sunken race of monsterkind.

In the halls of the abandoned laboratory, beneath the obsessive feet of the mad scientist and her cruel inventions, separated even from the horrors of her own creation, sat a small girl, locked inside a cold, clinical room with blank walls and blank floors and a great deal of bookshelves with blank shelves. A pile of crumpled, empty bags of chisps occupied one of the corners of the room, the other cluttered with a rumpled heap of quilts and an empty-eyed stuffed doll, and covering one wall of the room, the only decoration there was in the space, was a television set, always on, always watching.

Shadows gathered, along the edges of the room, cast deeper by the illumination of the television screen.

The girl child, lank brown hair hanging in her eyes and arms wrapped around her knees, wriggled her bare toes, wishing for a pair of socks but content enough. She was more concerned with the images on the screen, silent tears leaking down her cheeks and wide, shining eyes glued to what appeared to be a forest scenery, the tall, dilapidated trees draped with snow.

An injured girl, clearly terrified, hid among the trees, while a terrifying monster stalked her, fangs bared and words hard and threatening.

“i know you’re there, bitch. i can smell ya on the air… i can feel your _soul_ ,” the monster barked, gravely tone biting through the small room and echoing from the walls, and the small girl, flinching at his murderous tone, looked away from the screen, her lip wobbling.

She’d known he was going to find her. He always found her… and he was so angry. He was gonna hurt her again, she knew it… like he had the night before.

She shuddered, hugging her knees and looking down at her bare toes, ignoring the shadows that quivered and snickered from the corner of the room, hidden from the light and mocking, mocking, always mocking.

She wished Sans would be good, like she knew he could be. He had been sorry, he had _cried,_  before Frisk had run. He had been sorry, had promised himself to be good. He was so much better than this, there was love, not just LOVE, within him yet. He was better. She knew it.

The hissing chuckles from the corner only grew, as on the screen, Sans continued to posture and intimidate, threatening the girl sobbing behind a tree. The shadows gathered, as they laughed, rising and shifting and forming an amorphous blob.

“ **And now, chiiiild? Can you defend him now, as he redoublessss his foolish, prideful path? He doessssn’t learn. He makes the same mistakes, ooooover and over. What say you nnnnow**?” it chortled, distorted and gurgling, in its mass of roiling black tendrils and smoke and slime, and the girl looked on the blob with disgust, hiding her chin in the neck of her striped sweater.

“Always. He’s a good monster. He didn’t mean to do any of those things, and you know it. You’re the bad one,” she snapped, unwavering and loyal, and the mass of shadow grew quiet for a moment, surging with crackles of scarlet and purple, before something that sounded like a dismissive snort came from it.

“ **Perhapssss you need a reminder of his aaaactions** ,” it hissed, and the picture on the screen changed, to a quick-fire sequence of images that flew by without stopping, growing darker and more violent as they went. The centerpiece of them all was Sans, his hands coated with dust and blood, fangs dripping with sin, liquor, and coarse tongues; he killed without mercy, took what he desired and apologized to no one…

Picked the Frisk woman up off the ground by the hair, slammed her against the wall of the shed, and tied a collar around her neck, her humiliation bringing a smile to his ravenous face.

Touched her wihtout her permission. Hit her, scratched her, called her bad names. Tore her clothes, crawled over her despite her begging him not to…

**“Bear witneeeeess, girl. This is what he does to who he claaaaaims to love.”**

She couldn’t. She looked away, covering her ears to quiet the screams and crying. More tears dripped down her face, her arms trembling and her legs curling close to her body… but her face was firm, determined even.

“I remember what he did. I also know you made him like that. You hurt him, and turned him into this. He’s better than you, and he’s gonna show it,” she insisted stubbornly, and the mass, flashing a dangerous red, surged towards her, smoking slightly when it met the light of the television but pushing onwards until it stood over the unmoving, unimpressed girl.

A face, a terrible, twisted, cracked face, emerged from the mass, stopping an inch from the girl’s.

“ **Yeeees. I made him what he is. He has always, and ever will be, a tool for my cause. You will all see. You, the fooooolish woman, even him. But most especially you. He willllll fail you, as he failed me, and only whennnn you are brrrroken of allllll faith will I be satisssssfied, _Frisk_** ,” he snarled in her face, flecks of black sludge flecking her skin, and Frisk stared back into his damaged sockets, unmoving.

“That’s not going to happen.”

The sneering being, destroyed face hardening, huffed out a humorless chuckle, withdrawing back to the darkness. He faded into the shadows, where he truly belonged, leaving the girl to the renewed, current view of the forest, the Frisk on the screen standing from the snow, brushing frost from her coat, and setting her own face in determination.

“ **We will seeeeee**.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and hopefully we will have a large, brand new chapter soon!


	12. Delirium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lies are harder to see than the truth, sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good lord it's been too long. You have my most sincere apologies. Now on! Read, my friends! I meant it to be longer, but it was getting too wordy, once again. The next part will come much sooner.
> 
> My Tumblr, for skeleton goodies and other stuff:  
> https://thebananafrappe.tumblr.com/
> 
> My Fanart blog, for everything that gets made for my stuff <3  
> http://fanartcenteral.tumblr.com/

* * *

The moment that Frisk closed the door to the bar behind herself, her soul still buoyed on a high of determination and fortitude, the warmth of artificial heat washed over her, thawing her cheeks and the tip of her nose so pleasantly and fully that she let out a quiet, audible sigh, hugging herself and letting her eyes drift shut for a moment, lost to fond memory.

The smell alone, of cooking burgers and light, faded wood smoke and alcohol, brought her back to a better time, the clinking of glasses and gruff laughter and idle chatter sweeping her away to her childhood, a place far better than the one she was trapped in now.

Grillby’s.

She had loved this place, and the bars that came after it, in her world, with all her heart and years of acquaintance. Sans had never lost his taste for Grillby’s cooking, even after he had stopped drinking his woes away in like company, and had frequented the place closest to his home (and the college campus, as it happened) at least once a week, chatting with his old elemental friend and everyone else that came through the doors, known or not.

She had gone with him, many of those times, laughing along with her many monster friends, and the remembrance of those warm, carefully tended bars lingered in the back of her mind like a phantom.

She had been scared, when she had first seen the ill-kempt outside of the bar, the dark alley behind it littered with broken bottles and, more than likely, the remnants of many drunken sexual rendezvous, thinking the worst had happened and Grillby, along with his beloved restaurant, had gone the way of the rest of the Underground, becoming twisted and horrific and a pantomime of what she had once known.

Seeing the inside had relieved her, though. It looked almost exactly the same as it had the day she had stumbled into the establishment as a girl, into the company of the dog squad that she had just fought off and the miscellaneous drunken patrons and the ever stoic, but ever welcoming, presence of Grillby behind the bar, with his spectacles and formal dress and warm, convivial crackle of affectionate recognition.

There were differences, of course… the large floor of the bar seemed darker, smokier and layered with strange shadows, there were very few patrons (which was expected, considering the early hour), all seeming to be congregated around the bar… saying nothing of Grillby himself, and the changes that this warped, wrong universe had forced upon him.

His flames burned a dark violet, edged with blue, rather than the familiar and comforting orange and yellow they once had, and his face, before a flat, expressionless visage of serene calm (the Grillby of her world spoke almost entirely through sign language, since the language of fire is lost on most people and it took him a great deal of concentration to speak out loud), was cracked through with a jagged, smirking mouth and lit with slitted, bright eyes that looked on the world with something like contempt from behind fashionable, thin glasses.

He wore a long, elegant black overcoat, edged around the ruff with silver fur (a bit like Sans’ coat, actually… though she didn’t care to think about the bastard too much at the moment, flinching away from the memory of how that fur felt against her bare skin), over his formal, pinstriped black button up and slacks, held together with a bright red tie and a topped with a chain necklace.

There was something about his gaze, bright and sharp, that suggested a quick temper, even quicker than his smile and even hotter than his inner fire, and she had no doubt that, while he had apparently lost the fight with the denizens of the Underground regarding the outside of his bar (given the graffiti and the general disrepair), Grillby had complete control over the inside of it, and would permit no harm to it while he was on watch.

The bar grew quiet, when the door closed behind Frisk with slightly louder than expected finality (she had been a little too exuberant, entering the bar with her rush of determination and vigor), the patrons and owner turning to look at her with suspicion and intrigue.

Their silent observation and judging eyes (aside from the red feathered bird monster that seemed to be asleep at the middle of the bar, a nearly empty bottle of a swirling, glittery blue liquid clenched in one hand and his head laid on the top of the counter) nearly sent Frisk running right back out the door, nervous tension gathering in her limbs and stilling her breath.

She was on a mission, though, her soul pressing her onwards despite her quailing heart and limbs (she had to keep moving forwards; it wouldn’t be long before Sans figured out that she wasn’t going to obey him, and would come after her with a vengeance that she didn’t want visited on her), and so she stepped out of the entryway, shaking the dusting of snow that had alighted on her shoulders and hood from her parka and lowering her hood.

It was warm, almost too warm, in the bar, only growing in heat the closer she came to the long, shining counter, but Frisk dared not remove any more than she already had, the monsters watching her come closer inspecting her far too attentively to allow such a mistake.

She knew them all, in the other world: Grillby, of course, and the horse monster that sat next to the jukebox, complaining about populations and city folk, and the lizard monster, still draped in his own layers of sweaters and scarves, who owned a coffee shop on the surface, and Red, the bird that had pretended, so often, to translate her world’s Grillby’s words for him, snoring away at his usual spot.

Her instincts and kind heart wanted to reach out to them all, her erstwhile friends, but she couldn’t, especially not with the way their faces had changed with her approach; they had registered that she was a girl, that much was obvious in the clear way their gazes dropped to her body and how their frowns became smirks.

Frisk wrapped her arms around herself more firmly, panic growing thick on her tongue and roiling, sick and raw, in her stomach, but she pushed on, shoving the memory of what those looks could become away and stepping up to an empty section of the bar as confidently as she could manage (which, with her own brand of magic stirring in her soul, was quite a bit).

She raised her eyes to meet Grillby’s, swallowing away her nervousness, and pulled her scarf down far enough for him to be able to see her mouth.

He was able to hear just fine, she was aware of that, but he had picked up a habit of lip-reading, in her world, so he could always know what was going on in his bar, and was far more comfortable being able to do so.  
  
…Was that a preference of this Grillby? She didn’t know, now that she thought about it, her fingers tracing the soft material of her lowered scarf. He might not bother with it at all.

Discomfort, and the overwhelming feeling of being out of place, nudged her conscience, but again, Frisk ignored it, coughing to clear her throat and maintaining eye contact with the flame elemental, who was considering her with narrowed eyes over his thin glasses, a sly twist to his smile.

“H-hello! Nice morning we’re having!” she chirped squeakily, trying to ignore the attention of the other patrons of the bar while focusing on the tall, prodigious form of its owner (a bead of sweat dripped down the back of her neck, from the weight of his stare and the heat of his body both), and the horse monster, Charlie, if she remembered correctly, nursing an empty glass and a plate of half eaten eggs, whinnied in amusement at her greeting.

Grillby himself, eyes dropping to her lips as she spoke (had she been right?), allowed his smile to grow wider at her timid sounding voice, putting down the glass he had been shining with deliberate slowness to stroll over to the bar across from her, lean one large, powerful hand on the surface, and bend closer to her.

The heat in the air spiked a few more degrees, bringing a flush to Frisk’s face, and she unconsciously leaned away from the towering, fiery being, all too aware of the sweat on her lower back and the way her free strands of hair, draped around her face from under her beanie, frizzed just a little in the sweltering aura he gave off.

“…Hello indeed. …Welcome to Grillby’s, beautiful. …How can I be of service?” the flame elemental purred at her in a warm, smooth crackle, a harmless wood fire that coaxed the needy soul closer.

Frisk, despite instinctually wanting to soften in the face of one of her oldest, closest friends (that was his voice, his exact timbre, when he chose to speak; he was practically family, she didn’t need to be suspicious of him…), drew back even further from his inviting demeanor, the spark of mischief and allure in his scorching gaze making her wary.

He was a different monster, he was _not_ her friend; she couldn’t forget that these people, none of them, were the monsters that she had grown up with.

Bonnie? She had been a lucky break, and would have thrown her, half naked and freezing, out into the cold without the knowledge that Sans had “claimed” her.

She couldn’t count on them all being as intimidated by the angry skeleton monster, especially not Grillby. She knew for a fact that very few flame elementals were as strong as he was (he did live in the perpetual cold, after all, and never even batted a plasma lid at the elements); it was likely that he wasn’t afraid of Sans.

And as much as she loved Grillby, and as familiar as his movements were, his graceful calm and efficient poise, his gloved hands careful as he arranged his bottles of alcohol and buffed his bar and shined his tumblers, she couldn’t let her guard down around him. He didn’t remember her, and that had taught her well to be cautious.

Never again could she afford to forget that they were different… not after Sans had cemented that in her mind.

“ _i’m. not. him.”_

Frisk shuddered, her arms lowering to wrap around her still bruised abdomen, and shook her head side to side rapidly to clear away the thought of his voice, rough and hot against the side of her face, the feeling of his ribs pressed to her back… the pain of betrayed trust and shattered hopes and stolen innocence.

No. Never again.

“Uhm… I wanted to get a burger, please? And… if you could… could I put it on Sans’s tab?” she muttered hopefully, shoving her former contemplation to the back of her mind for what felt like the twentieth time that same day, and though she knew her query would have a reaction, the magnitude of it was beyond her expectation.

The other patrons of the bar froze in their mocking and joviality (Red snorted and turned his head, in his sleep), smiles dropping from faces and incredulity springing into life; Grillby looked likewise stunned, blinking several times and lowering his smoky brows in confusion.

Beside the jukebox, jaw hanging open and eyes a little wild, Charlie nickered nervously, glancing at the door to the bar as though expecting a demon to come bursting through it, before looking back at Frisk almost angrily.

“You got a death wish? Sans ain’t into charity, unless you’re wanting to donate your dust to his collection or your ass to his spank bank,” he reprimanded in a stage whisper, feeling blindly for his still empty cup to attempt to take a drink out of it, and Darius, the lizard monster seated a few stools away from him, nodded silently, shifting uneasily in his seat.

Frisk, herself, felt a surge of dread at their reactions, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder herself for the menacing presence that just the utterance of his name brought about. She kept herself still out of determined stubbornness, pressing on despite the hairs rising on the back of her neck, despite the instinctual fear that thinking of him roused.

She would not be cowed by him. She was _done_ being confined by his wont and desire.

So Frisk forced the nervousness down and away, her expression firming and hardening, and shifted to unzip her jacket just a little, pulling at the collar to expose the mark of Sans’ teeth in her flesh, the evidence of his violation and his supposed ownership of her. She hadn’t planned to use it that way (had intended to never let anyone else see it, ever again), but she didn’t have time to waste on explaining herself.

She had an escape to make, and the quicker the better.

“I don’t think he’ll mind, in my case,” she insisted, keeping the bite mark exposed for another moment, long enough for all three of the males at the bar to see it, before pulling her clothes back to rights, trying to keep the flush of shame at the admission off of her cheeks (they could think what they wanted, it meant nothing. He didn’t own her, no matter what he said), and the before quiet bar only stilled further, every one of the monsters drawing back from her and sucking in astounded breaths.

Darius was the first to break the heavy silence, his forked tongue flicking past his scarf laden face to test the air in his apprehension.

“Holy sssshhit,” he hissed, clenching gloved hands around the edge of the counter, and Grillby crackled gently in agreement from the distance he had immediately put between them (Frisk’s brows lowered as she registered this, recalling how Bonnie had made nearly the same movement once hearing that she was marked), his violet flames burning brightly in his quizzical surprise.

“…So he finally found you. …From the city, I assume. …You were better off where you were… but I’m sure you know that by now,” he observed placidly, white hot gaze flicking over what he could see of her face; she knew what he was seeing, the cut lip and bruised skin that lingered from their rendezvous the night before, the collar tied around her throat, and lowered her eyes, pulling her scarf up over the lower half of her face.

Charlie, finally discovering that his glass was empty nearly a minute after attempting to drink from it, whinnied in accord while beckoning for a new drink, which Grillby gracefully ignored.

Darius looked likewise sympathetic, curling his long, emerald scaled tail around one of the legs of his stool.

“I’m sssssurprised he even let you out of bed. ‘Ssssspose Papyrusssss made him go to work… not gonna be happy when he getsssss off,” he warned, voice shaky and fearful, and Frisk tensed for a moment, remembering too well his own attestation to that comment (she wasn’t going to be there to find out, she didn’t have to worry), before shrugging off her instinctual prostration, in time to hear Charlie piping in with his own input.

“He obviously did a number on you already. Never one for going easy on anyone, that guy… I’d watch yourself around him. He’s got a real short, nasty temper on him, and when he loses it, people start dying,” he grunted, abandoning his glass for the moment to attempt to stay steady on his stool (he’d clearly had enough to drink for the day), and Frisk blinked, her fingers clenching in the material of her scarf.

She had suspected that this Sans, so much harder and colder and more violent than the one she knew, was a vicious monster, capable of great evil and intolerant of disrespect (she knew that much from her interactions with him in her prison, saying nothing of his treatment of her the night before), but hearing confirmation of his poor temperament, and the depths of his depravity, was surreal, Bonnie’s earlier fear echoing in every face present, even Grillby’s.

Sadness pulled at her soul, her mind drifting to her patient, caring, charismatic Sans. What had happened here, to make him into such a beast? No, they weren’t the same, she knew that now more than ever. But there must be a reason.

What had driven him to murder and cruelty and… what he had done to her?

“…is he really that bad?” she muttered, her curiosity overcoming her need for escape, and every eye turned back to her, surprise and incredulity in their gazes. Charlie found his voice first, and laughed tersely, glancing around at the other male monsters in the room before looking back at her.

“Sans? He's fucking savage. Bastard has been terrorizing the countryside for over a century, killing anyone that even looks at him wrong. Him and his brother both rule the forests with iron fists… but at least Papyrus has a little mercy in his soul. He’ll give you a fair chance,” he explained in a stage whisper, tapping a hoof on the bar floor in his agitation, and Darius flicked his tongue in agreement, blinking his inner eyelids rapidly.

“Sssssans doesn’t know the meaning of merccccy. Of coursssse, being a bossssss monster, he can exxxxxercccise hissss own judicial disssscretion…” he allowed, shrugging one shoulder stiffly, and Frisk furrowed her brows, scooting a step forward to lean against the bar in intrigue.

 She resisted the impulse to sit on the dark leather covered stool beside her, too tense to even make a show of relaxing, but at the same moment, her legs were weak with fatigue, unused to so much usage after a month of being chained to a wall.

This looked casual enough to indicate her interest (which wasn’t fabricated in the least; how better to learn about Sans than from third parties?) while letting her rest without giving away her weakness.

Her appearance and conveyance aside… What did being a boss monster have to do with anything?

As far as she was aware, her Sans’ status as a boss monster (somehow different than the species Boss monster, a title given him for his strength and power) had never gotten him anything but responsibilities he never wanted, his position as Judge and the potential to have his soul used for immense power. Did it mean something more here?

“And… and what does that mean?” she questioned, crossing one boot over the back of the other and flexing her ankle inconspicuously, and Grillby flickered a dim purple, darkening his expression into stormy consideration. His gloved hands tightened around the edge of the bar, and his fiery eyes narrowed.

“…It means that he can do whatever he wants, kill when it suits him. …And it suits him often. …I’ve had to clean up more than my fair share of dust just in here, from his drunken rages,” he replied morosely, rearranging glasses behind the bar to have something to do with his hands, and Frisk paled, a lump forming in her throat.

It seemed the fearful respect he was treated with was earned… if he went around killing other monsters regularly, clearly forming his own system of judge, jury, and executioner for the monsters in and around Snowdin, then his LV must be incredible, renowned, even.

Did she really stand a chance of escaping a foe with such incredible assets and power at his disposal?

Frisk immediately blocked the thought from her mind, ignoring it and glaring at the top of the bar and the assorted stains and crumbs decorating it. She couldn’t afford to let fatalistic nonsense into her mind, not when she still had so far to go. He clearly expected his intimidation to have worked its magic on her, and didn’t think her brave enough to test him beyond what she already had.

He had another thing coming.

Charlie jabbed his elbow at Darius, as Frisk contemplated the road ahead, his grin tight but his eyes sparkling with suggestive supposition.

“The ladies sure get a kick out of it, at the very least. Well, did. They’ll have to find another dick to sit on now, ‘spose,” he insinuated, waggling his coarse brows and sounding just a little excited (less competition for him, perhaps?) while again attempting to get the barkeep’s attention for a refill, and Grillby crackled benignly, his expression morphing into sarcastic dismissal, while Frisk resisted snorting, hiding the roll of her eyes.

He could keep sleeping around for all she cared. She’d prefer it, honestly.

“…Miss Muffet will be displeased that she’s lost her best client, I’m sure,” the flame elemental muttered, running a tattered, stained rag over the top of the bar and knocking most of the crumbs onto the floor.

Darius picked nervously at a loose scale under his many scarves, seeming unable to sit still in his agitation.

“There’ssss one misssstressss he won’t be leaving behind, though… the neck of a bottle. I’d get usssssed to him coming home drunk off his bony asssssss,” he offered, glancing sidelong at Frisk through slitted irises, and Frisk, blinking at all the information being provided her, lowered her brows, a flicker of concern running through her.

There had been a time, in her world, where her Sans had struggled with an alcohol addiction. It had taken him years to shake, and even now she suspected that he occasionally self-medicated. She had no idea why he had taken up the habit, as he refused to say anything about it, or to even acknowledge it, but it had always worried her.

She hated knowing she couldn’t help him with one of his demons, that he insisted on battling it alone. She wanted so badly to help him, the way he always, without fail, helped her. She despised that he wouldn’t even tell her why, that he was keeping a secret from her.

Though, she supposed, she did keep her own secrets from him... she was too ashamed and afraid of the nightmares, the disturbing visions of a genocide by her own hand, to tell him about them.

Shaking away the gut churning remembrances of those terrible dreams (night terrors of her hands covered in dust and blood had chased her for years, she was practiced in shaking them off now), Frisk turned instead to the matter at hand, the omnipresent, malicious shadow that stretched over her mind, that seeped from her every pore and clung to the corners of her consciousness.

Was that what this Sans was doing too? Was he also waging an inner war, and losing so dismally that he had to drown the pain in booze? It of course explained why he had come to her in the shed smelling of whiskey so often, though he certainly hadn’t acted drunk (a high tolerance, perhaps?), and might even be the very same reason that her beloved had turned so often to the bottle.

Resets had certainly bothered her Sans, driving him into a consuming and prevalent nihilistic depression while trapped in the Underground and by the repetition of the unending days…

Though, resets didn’t seem possible in this world, at least from what Flowey had told her in their short acquaintance (he hadn’t even known what they were, when she asked him)… and she had always suspected her Sans’ drinking didn’t have to do with the resets anyway.

Another thing to wonder about, and on another day. Time was growing short; she needed to hit the road, and soon, before Sans shook his brother off his back and decided to come after her.

The three monsters’ conversation had gone on without her, while she had been musing dourly over yet another conundrum between the universes (why did they have to be so alike… why did the small things have to be so similar, it wasn’t _fair_ ), and when she emerged it took her a moment to catch up, squinting at her companions and tilting her head.

“…like this long as I knew him, way back when he first moved here from out in Hotland. Hundred twenty, twenty-five years back. Built the house he and his brother live in now with his bare hands. Always had a bad temper, too, but seems like it’s only gotten worse at time went on. We all have our vices, but Sans? He’s another thing entirely,” Charlie was whinnying in a hushed undertone, speaking from behind a hoof, while Darius slithered in place, looking again at the door to the bar, clearly ready to bolt at first notice.

“You can ssssay that again. At least when he was younger you’d only get a punch in the face. One wrong ssssstep in front of him now, and you’re assss good assss dusssst.”

Charlie clicked his tongue, humphing, folding his arms across his chest, and opening his mouth again, and Frisk barely resisted sighing, anxious awareness gnawing at the corners of her psyche. The passing of time that she couldn’t afford to lose was omnipresent, chafing like so much sandpaper at her already frayed nerves, ticking away her steadily lessening window of escape.

She needed to _go_ , as fascinating and worrisome as the information she was gathering was. This conversation was going on too long… but it wasn’t like she could ask them to speed it up.

If these monsters were anything like the ones that had attacked her on the way through the Ruins, they wouldn’t be forgiving of her rudeness, no matter who her “mate” was.

“Always wondered what crawled up his ass and made him such a class A douchebag. Don’t think even his brother knows why; Papyrus was just an ankle biter when they moved into town and… asserted themselves,” Charlie mused aloud, seeming to have finally forgotten about his empty glass (Grillby swiped them up instantly into his bus basket, expertly sliding a bill under Charlie’s hoof quickly in their place), and with his back turned, focused on sliding his load of dirty dishes and filthy rags through the window into the kitchen beyond the bar, Grillby sparked quietly, his flames dimming .

“…The only person that knows why he is the way he is… is Sans himself. …He’s not fond of telling that story, though. …All I know is that it has something to do with his parents,” he muttered, dusting his hands off and rearranging his overcoat’s ruff in an appearance of vanity, and the drunken, clearly intimidated patrons of the bar (even including Red, though another snore immediately signaled his return to slumber) all shivered as one, the wakeful members looking downright disgusted at the prospect.

“Musssst have been a bunch of assssssholessss, to abandon their kidsssss,” Darius sneered, a scaled upper lip curling over his yellowed fangs, and Charlie spat into a filthy brass spittoon at his side, the wad of tobacco he had apparently been chewing letting out a satisfying ding when it met the pot.

“I can’t imagine the monsters that could’ve birthed a jerkoff like Sans. It’s hard to picture anyone worse… and that was _before_ he was mated,” he scoffed, wiping his muzzle on the back of his hand, and Frisk stared, trying not to get too caught up in the conversation again but incredibly interested.

Monster parents were, by their nature, protective of their children, driven to great extremes to see to their wellbeing and protection; monster children were so rare, so incredibly difficult to birth into life, that they _had_ to be protected.

To hear that the Sans and Papyrus of this world had been abandoned by their parents, and that it was still an incredible oddity, even in this terrible place, made an itch of interest and perplexity into her curious mind; her Sans had grown to adulthood with both of his parents, had pictures and fond memories of them that he recalled on occasion, as did her Papyrus.

But she couldn’t sit here any longer, waiting for them to run out of steam, nor could she indulge their conversation by asking, as she desired, more in depth after the topic. She couldn’t afford to waste any more time here. Each moment that she dallied, Sans grew a step closer to catching her.

She didn’t want to find out if he had been serious about his promised punishment. She needed to get out of his reach for good.

So, with a shake of her head and a reminder to think later (again) on the current subject, Frisk tentatively cleared her throat, setting one gloved hand on the top of the bar.

“Umm… I’m sorry, but I…” she began, when the monsters present glanced back at her in surprise, almost as though they had forgotten she was there (barring Grillby, who merely inspected her visage in silent curiosity, tilting his flaming head and narrowing his gaze), but was cut off when Darius, eyes widening in shock, suddenly shot up out of his barstool, staring at Frisk as though he had seen a ghost and paying no mind when his former seat clattered to the sleek wooden floor.

He backed up a quick step, his tail an emerald whip of distress behind him, and grabbed for his layers of coats and scarves, as though searching for something.

“Ssssstarsss… he’ssssss gonna be a terror now, essssspecially until he bondssss you. We might get dusssssted jusssst for looking at you. I’m outta here,” he hissed with a blatant note of terror in his voice, finally finding what he had apparently been looking for (a handful of gold coins, shining dully in the smoky light of the shaded overhead lights) and tossing them on the counter before bolting, slithering across the restaurant like a streak of lightning and out the front door.

The gust of chill wind that followed his exit ruffled Frisk’s hair and guttered Grillby’s flames, flickering purple and blue shadows across the shelves of alcohol behind the bar, and Charlie, grunting, gained his feet as well, though with far more marked slowness, probably due to his drunkenness.

He sent a wink to Frisk, putting his own payment on the bar before starting to make his meandering way across the grill, his tail swishing around under his long coat and sweeping stray flakes of snow across the floorboards.

“Me too. Nice to meet you and all, sweetcheeks, but… you’ll pardon us for not wanting to end up as more LV for your mate. Seeya around,” he called, waving a hoof over his shoulder, and shouldered his way out of the front door as well, another cool gale fluttering the used napkins and bent bills on the top of the bar with its passing.

A cool, stiff quiet fell in their absence, only Red’s snoring and the crackle of Grillby’s sigh as he went to collect his pay to be heard, and Frisk looked guiltily to the owner of the bar, dropping her head in chagrin and hoping he wouldn’t lash out at her.

Grillby, despite his reputation as a flame elemental, had never been a violent monster, one of the kindest and most respected monsters in the Underground, and though could be firm, was always easy going and giving.

She could only hope that something of his temperament lingered in his counterpart. Her interaction with Bonnie had given her a great deal of hope in that hypothesis, and even some of Sans’ actions, newly revealed by her snooping that morning, could be compared with his other self.

Deep down, in her heart of hearts, in her very soul, beating with the magic of her determined kindness, she knew that all monsters were made of love, hope, and compassion.

Something had happened to this world, but not even that could totally change these people. Deep in their souls, there was good. It just had to be given the opportunity to live again.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to run your customers off…” she offered, moving from her spot against the bar to pick up and right the fallen and scooted out bar stools that had been upset by their erstwhile companions’ sudden flight, and Grillby, glancing up at her from under his flickering eyebrows, shrugged his broad shoulders, looking unsurprised and resigned as he resumed picking up and counting gold coins.

“…Sans’ presence has a way of doing that. …Don’t worry, they will become accustomed to the idea, and grow more comfortable with you, unless you intend to use your mate’s influence to intimidate,” he spat blandly, sounding expectant and bored as he brought his take to his till, and Frisk, affronted, drew her head back, slapping a hand on the back of the bar stool she stood beside.

“I would _never_ do that. It’s despicable,” she proclaimed, huffy and prideful (did he really expect her to act so horrible? Were all bond pairs so… unfeeling, using each other for power? She liked to think not…), and Grillby, surprised by her responses, crackled a gentle lavender as he turned to look at her curiously, over the rim of his stylish glasses, leaning back against his till and folding his defined arms across his chest.

Frisk felt like she was being scrutinized all the way to her soul, under that stare, critical and searching and intense, and fidgeted in place, but didn’t break from meeting his gaze, her chest heaving in the weight of the moment but her spine straight and her determination strong.

Eventually, Grillby blinked, shaking his head and looking supremely confused, raising a hand to the center of his chest for a moment. His gloved fingers pressed against his shirt front, shifting the chain necklace he wore; his mouth tilted quizzically, and his eyes narrowed, though not in dislike.

It looked more like he was trying to remember something.

“…Hmm. …It would likely be to your benefit to, it would get you far,” he said at last, his smooth timbre quiet, offset by the wind blowing across the tin roof above, and Frisk, swallowing back a rush of nervousness, pulled habitually at her hat and scarf despite the heat of the bar, hiding more of her human features carefully under the material.

He was clearly suspicious about something to do with her, and the more she hid from him, the better. Being found out for a human so soon would _not_ be to her benefit.

“So does a kind word, and det… a smile,” she responded softly, barely catching herself in a deadly mishap (monsters didn’t have determination, especially not in great concentrations; it was deadly to their bodies, liquefying their magic and thus their forms), and though Grillby looked unconvinced, one violet brow rising over his staid gaze, he seemed to accept her reasoning, pushing off of the till to walk along the length of the bar, towards the door that led into the kitchen.

“…So it would seem. …I will prepare your meal for you. …It will only be a moment, but take a seat,” he offered, starting to shrug out of his overcoat as he walked, and Frisk, watching the fire elemental leave the main area of the bar with careful eyes, breathed a sigh of relief when he disappeared from sight with a crackle of magical flame and the soft click of the door closing behind him, flopping sideways into the stool she stood next to and putting a palm to her covered, sweaty forehead.

That had been far more intense than she had been prepared for.

She had no idea why he was so interested in her kindness (shit… in this place, it probably was really strange for a monster to be so kind to another… she just didn’t have it in her to be cruel, not even in farce), but it mattered very little.

Once she had gotten the burger from him, she was out of here, and never planned to come back. She’d be back in her own world soon enough….

Somehow.

Frisk, expression falling, swept her hand down, covering her eyes and clenching them shut. Her plan to make this place right and find her way back to her own world was incredibly flawed.

She suspected that she had been brought here for a reason, that there was a purpose for her presence in this world, and that that thing relied on her unique abilities… but how was she supposed to figure that out? Solving her world’s problems seemed like child’s play in comparison.

Was she supposed to break the barrier? Was she supposed to make friends with the monsters, change their minds about humans? Was there even anything she _could_ do?

She truly didn’t know, and that concerned her more than anything.

What if there really was no way back to her world? What if something had changed in the timeline, and this wasn’t a different place at all? What if her friends, her family, her lover, were just this way now, and this was all she had?

What if her Sans didn’t exist anymore?

Frisk dug her palm into the left eye socket, shaking her head furiously and dismissing the tears and the fear that sprung immediately to existence, forcing her mind away from hopelessness and to what needed to be done.

She couldn’t lose her will now. There was too much to be done.

He was still out there, she _knew_ it. He was waiting for her to come home, if not trying to find her himself. She just had to be strong, had t-

The door to the bar banging open, slamming against the wall behind it and shaking several of the pictures hanging on it, interrupted her thoughts, letting a long, intensely cold gale of wind fill the restaurant, and Frisk, unable to stop herself, turned on her stool to look at what had caused such a cacophony of noise to intrude on her musing…

And immediately turned back to face the bar, pulling her hood tight around her face and ducking her head into the collar of her sweater.

The last thing she needed was _another_ familiar face, yet another reminder of the world left behind her, let alone _him_. She hadn’t seen him since their ill-fated meeting as a younger girl; she had heard he had moved to a new city, not long after she had kissed him and Sans had found out.

Aaron wasn’t a monster she had particularly been looking forward to encountering regardless of that fact.

Yet here he was, sweeping sinuously along on his powerful tail, snow clinging to the scarlet scales of his lower body as he finally closed the door and pulled a fine toothed comb from his leather jacket’s pocket, running it through his coifed and slicked back ebony mane pompously.

He looked around the bar through slitted, sultry crimson irises, pierced ears perked and dusted with snow, and from his scarred maw, slashed across with what appeared to be claw marks, pointed fangs extended, making his grin look more than creepy, becoming fully wicked.

His leather jacket, shoulders spiked with cruel, rusty looking barbs, was open across his bare chest, and true to form, the monster was sweating heavily despite the cold outside, bulging muscles dripping with perspiration.

His hand stilled, in his attempt at fixing his wind mussed hair, when he spotted Frisk, her unfortunately feminine clothes giving away her gender despite her attempt to hide her hair and face, and his wide smirk only broadened, finishing with his hair and putting his comb away as he slid his way across the floorboards, his tail undulating powerfully to propel him with ease.

It was only seconds before he was leaning against the bar beside her, elbow sat on the countertop and chin propped on a fingerless gloved hand; she could smell his body odor from his closeness, the smell of Waterfall’s swamps carried on his clothes, and though she leaned away from him as inconspicuously as she could, wrinkling her nose and turning further away, he didn’t seem to pick up on her body language, only grinning, his lower lip piercing catching the light, and dragging his eyes very obviously down her form.

“Well, well… what have we here? Pretty little tourist, down from the city, I assume. Let me welcome you then,” he purred in a clearly feigned baritone, the smell of cigarettes carrying on his heavy breaths (Frisk paled, her stomach clenching, at the smell; her mind immediately turned to Sans against her will, defying her best efforts to avoid it), and made up for the distance that she had tried to put between them by scooting closer to her.

Frisk, panicking slightly and seriously considering just bolting from the bar completely (Grillz would have to forgive her), gulped heavily, clutching at the edge of her coat and averting her eyes.

“T-thank you, but I’m familiar with the country… just don’t get out often…” she stuttered, edging just a little sideways on the stool with her heart in her throat and her own sweat dripping down her neck and lower back, but Aaron, either blind or just uncaring, noticed nothing, his nostrils flaring excitably and his tongue, curiously forked and pierced, flicking past his fangs to taste the air.

He leaned further back against the bar, clearly showing off his bare chest (even his nipples were pierced… this Aaron must have a thing for pain).

“Oh, you definitely should, sweet thing! Lots of stuff to do around here… sights to see…” he prompted with an ostentatious wink, raising his free arm into an impressive flex (the leather of his jacket creaked slightly from the strain), and Frisk, restraining a roll of her eyes, looked gratefully up to the sound of another door opening, heralding the reappearance of Grillby, now with his button up’s sleeves rolled up and missing his tie and overcoat, one hand grasping a brown paper bag slightly stained with grease marks.

She made to dismount the bar stool, excited to be on her way, and gave Aaron a parting, sideways glance.

“Hmm… I bet. But that’s my order, I really should be going,” she said shortly, getting her boot tangled in one of the chair rungs in her hurry to escape the tight situation, and Aaron, crestfallen and losing confidence like a popped balloon loses air, reached out to stop her, clawed fingers aimed for her thigh.

“C’mon, you’re not leaving so soon, are you? We were just getting to know each other…” he protested, his smooth voice encouraging a negative response, and behind the bar, Grillby’s eyes widened, his free hand rising and his steps lengthening.

“…Aaron, no! …Don’t!” he called out hurriedly, dread and distress in his rushed tone, but he wasn’t fast enough, and Aaron not quick enough to react to his warning; Aaron’s palm met Frisk’s leg, stroking a stripe from her thigh to her knee as she jerked away and fell against the bar stool next to her.

Where he had touched tingled unpleasantly, like her leg was waking up from a long period without movement, and Frisk, whipping her gaze between the nonplussed Aaron, hand still hanging in the air, and the flustered, reproachful owner of the bar, rubbed her leg to try to smooth away the numbness.

She frowned at Aaron, mouth already opening to berate him, but Grillby beat her to it, slapping the brown bag of food down on the counter and glaring at the hippocampus irately, his white hot gaze narrow and exasperated.

“…You stupid, horny idiot, you’ve killed yourself and you don’t even know it,” he spat, crackling like an inferno in a whirlwind, and Aaron, thrown further into disquiet and confusion, could only blink, slowly lowering his hand to rest on his tail.

“What’s the big deal, Grillz? I was just…” he protested slowly, trying to understand the situation, and Grillby sighed heavily, reaching up to rub his forehead, as though warding away a headache, before glaring at Aaron with intense annoyance.

“…I always told you your philandering would get you up to your neck in shit _._ You just touched a marked woman,” he explained tartly, waving a hand shortly at Frisk, and Aaron glanced at Frisk, back to Grillby, and then whipped his head back around to stare at Frisk in horror, all color leaving his face.

He immediately drew back about two feet from her, shaking his hand and looking more perturbed, even, than the first time she had seen him listen to Napstablook’s mix tape; he grasped as his offending hand, like he could somehow keep his past self from reaching out and touching her.

“ _Oh_ … Ohhh no… N-No… I didn’t realize, I didn’t smell it on her…” he stammered, his former, dulcet voice fleeing him in favor of the tone she knew to be his, boyish and interspersed with whinnies, and Grillby, understanding entering his hard stare, shook his head, dropping his hands to the bar to hold himself up.

“…She’s newly marked, just last night by the looks of it, but he’s not going to accept that as an excuse. …Sans isn’t the most understanding of monsters,” he said with a note of regret and weariness in his speech, clearly worn out from all of the drama that day already; Frisk felt a pang of sadness as she watched him, to be putting so much trouble on her old friend’s doorstep and then leaving him to deal with it.

What if Sans came in, heard she had come here, and hurt Grillz? She couldn’t stand that thought... she hadn’t wanted this, to put him in danger’s path…

Aaron, from the length of the room that he had fled, turned a sickly shade of green, clutching at his throat and shaking his head repeatedly, almost like he wasn’t aware of its motion.

“Dear fucking stars… _S-sans_ … Sweetheart, please… I didn’t mean anything by it, please tell him it was an accident…” he plead, beseeching Frisk directly for mercy, and though Frisk, heart clenching in her chest, was moved by his entreaty (he didn’t deserve whatever Sans would do to him for touching her, he had barely brushed her, and hadn’t known better, for whatever reason), Grillby again answered for her, leaning his head forward and looking down at the ground sadly.

“…You know he won’t care, Aaron… just get out of here. …When he comes in looking for you, I’ll tell him I haven’t seen you. …If you’re lucky, you’ll have another few weeks before he gets over the mating rush and goes hunting,” he instructed, waving a gloveless hand at the door to the bar, and Aaron didn’t need to be told twice, slithering across the bar and out the door without another word, leaving Frisk just as confused as he had been just a moment before watching the door slam shut before looking back to Grillby, who had removed his glasses and was rubbing his closed, plasma eyelids.

“Grillby… what was all that about? Why won’t any of you touch me?” she queried tentatively as she perched on the edge of the stool behind her, twisting her hands together in her lap and trying to ignore not just the prevalent tingling along her leg and the warning bells going off in her head, but a raw pain in her left shoulder, the scabbed mark of Sans’ bite sending sudden jolts through her upper body.

Grillby, spending another moment rubbing his face, reached out to slip his glasses back onto his face, then turned to crack a doubtful eye at her, one brow raised cursorily.

“…Didn’t your parents teach you about the Rules?” he rejoined, pushing himself back up to full height and propping his hands on his hips, and Frisk, suddenly aware that this was dangerous ground, likely something that all monsters were aware of, shifted in her half seat, averting her gaze and resisting biting her lower lip.

She needed to be very careful…

“Of course they did. I’m just… last night was very tough for me. He wasn’t gentle with me, and explained very little. What I was taught before is pretty foggy,” she explained, not exactly lying (the night before had been the worst of her life, and had left her grasping for straws), and noted a sympathetic light entering Grillby’s gaze at her attestation, his eyes flicking down to her bruised and cut face.

He looked at her in silence for a long moment, as though considering whether he should tell her or not, before nodding his head shortly, reaching out to scoot the bag he had dropped on the counter earlier towards her (and immediately withdrawing his hand when she reached for it).

“…Long ago, the Rules of the Bond were made, to keep monsters from killing each other left and right out of jealousy and possessiveness while they went through the marking and courtship phase of bonding. …There are Rules for courting, propriety, soul etiquette, all the necessary material. …The Rule I speak of concerns the boundaries of the mating mark,” he divulged, one hand instinctively making its way up to the chain around his neck.

He looked almost fond, for a moment, his flames glowing an electric blue, before he cleared his throat and settled, his errant hand retreating to a pocket of his slacks.

“…Once a monster bears the mark of their mate to be, no other monster is allowed to casually touch them until they have been bonded, though contact in crowds or battle is permitted. …The scent of another monster on their body is reason enough to imply guilt. …If guilt is implied, the mate of the one that has been touched is entitled to the life of the accused. …Most often, it ends in dust,” he finished, his mouth twisting at the edge sardonically, and Frisk, stunned, sat back on her stool, her hand reaching up to brush her hidden mark, unwanted though it may be.

“So… so Sans…” she stuttered, the gravity of Aaron’s mistake becoming pugnaciously evident, and Grillby nodded gravely, turning away and straightening his bottles of liquor.

“…Yes. …Aaron touched you, and his life is forfeit. …Most monsters would be merciful in such an event, but Sans... he will show no mercy, if he discovers Aaron’s scent on you,” he muttered, pulling a rag from his back pocket to wipe some dust from a thick, clear bottle full of golden liquid that changed color when moved, and Frisk gaped, appalled.

This was a _rule_ for these monsters, a _**commonality**_? They killed each other over misunderstandings and trifles? It was horrific. It was needlessly brutal. Surely this was all just a mistake, blown far out of proportion.

“That’s barbaric! It was an accident!” she protested, and Grillby turned to look at her oddly, squinting at her as though her head had just changed shape.

“…He will not care. …It is the law; mates are sacred, protected by both decree and right… he is entitled to his vengeance. …Aaron has, at most, another month before Sans comes for his life,” he reiterated, the rag in his hand forgotten as he watched her closely, but Frisk was too incensed to care, puffed up with righteous indignation.

This was insanity. She wasn’t going to allow a (mostly) innocent monster to be killed over something this silly.

“I won’t let Sans kill him. Not over something this stupid,” she insisted stubbornly, disgusted with such a cruel and ludicrous system (though… her Sans had become almost insanely jealous, when she had kissed the Aaron of her world… did he and the monsters of her world operate off these Rules as well?), and that same look, the expression of curious recollection and confused reluctance, overcame Grillby’s flickering visage again.

He walked closer to prop himself against the counter, forearms flat against the bar in front of her, and leaned closer to look in her eyes raptly, flaming brows lowered in intense concentration; he didn’t seem to find what he was looking for, though Frisk grew increasingly nervous under his inspection, and let out a frustrated sigh at the deficiency, his fiery smirk a quirked frown of dissatisfaction.

“…Have I met you before, young one? …The way you speak… I feel as though I know you,” he sizzled, his fire burning a darker shade of purple in his confusion, and Frisk, blinking in shock and stunned wariness (what did he mean? He… he couldn’t _remember_ her, could he? From across another universe?), sat back as innocuously as she could manage, sinking her chin into her lowered hood and averting her face.

It was impossible. He couldn’t remember her… that would mean that… that the other monsters remembered her too. That Bonnie had… that Toriel had, so long ago in the Ruins… that Sans…

 _ **Sans**_.

She felt sick, all over again, the familiar and mouthwatering scent of the burger in the bag in front of her turning her stomach and making her want to curl herself into a corner and weep inconsolably.

If the monsters remembered her, if _Sans_ remembered her… then he knew. Then he _knew_ what they had had before. Who she was to him, what they had nearly been, in her world… how much she had _loved_ him… and had still beaten and imprisoned and nearly killed her.

Had _raped_ her, in the full knowledge of how much it would destroy her.

She suddenly remembered, with a chill of horror and realization, him whispering her name against her throat the night before, as he came inside her (she nearly retched at the thought, at the recalled feeling of his cock throbbing and emptying magic into her)… she had never told him her name, for him to know it.

It was possible that she had said it in her sleep at some point, but highly unlikely, and with how both Bonnie and Grillby were acting… how Toriel had broken down and let her go… how Sans always seemed to know things that he shouldn’t (things she had promised his other self… things he could only know if he had been there himself)…

She didn’t want to think it. It would mean something so terrible, so horrific, that she couldn’t even grasp it in her dumbfounded revelation.

She… she had hoped (both hoped and feared, to be honest), that some part of him was still inside. That there was something in the horrid, cruel beast of a monster that remained in this world that was familiar to her, and that could be redeemed. But if he remembered…

If he _knew_ …

Then there really was no hope. There was no home, no escape. This was what she had now, a world full of twisted, cruel monsters and an Underground bent on living up to its kill or be killed nature and a Sans that cared no longer for her beyond his desire to control and use her.

Frisk felt her precious determination start to crumble, in the wake of this realization, her soul quailing and leaving her bereft of all she was fighting for, all the hope that she clung to so desperately in this nightmarish clone of her universe.

She had held so fiercely to the thought that she had somewhere better to return to. That her beloved waited for her, just out of reach.

If these monsters remembered her, though, she had _nothing_. Nothing but abuse and horror and fear and the collar around her neck, speaking to her real place in this world.

She may as well give up now.

Heartbroken, bitter tears pricked her downcast eyes, filled her soul with a loss and sorrow that she hadn't allowed herself to even contemplate before, and Frisk, buried in misery and pain and betrayal, shrank into herself wretchedly, her arms crossing her shaking body in an attempt to hold herself together, the brown bag she clutched crackling in her tight embrace.

She knew better than to self-destruct like this, to fall to pieces when she needed to be strong, but the ache in her chest was too powerful. She couldn't...

_Sans..._

“I don’t think so, no…” she muttered, doing her best to keep her voice even despite the tears that clung to edges of her words, the earth shattering hollowness that grasped for control of her very being, and Grillby, far more astute than anyone ever gave him credit for, caught the change in her mood immediately, his fiery brows beetling and concern emanating from him.

He didn't know what to make of her obvious misery, what in their conversation had caused the change in her, and so dropped the subject, something within him pressing him to be softer, more gentle, than his usual temperament allowed.

“…Déjà vu, I assume. …Forgive me. …Should I make something for Sans as well?” he queried gingerly, pulling a deep scarlet handkerchief from his shirt pocket and wordlessly laying it on the top of the counter between them, and Frisk, blinking and sniffling, glanced up at him in confusion, her tear blurred gaze flicking between his carefully blank face and the scrap of material on the bar beside her.

She hesitantly took it, wiping at her eyes and hiccuping.

“O-oh, um. No. He… Sans doesn’t know I’m out of the house,” she murmured, her voice cracking as she held the handkerchief back out to him, and Grillby took it from her carefully, folding the material and tossing it into the rag basket under the counter. He nodded as he did so, though he looked to her with worry, his frown deepening.

“…You should return quickly, then. …He will not like knowing you were here alone, and… it is best to avoid angering him, if you can. …It will be easier for you, and your bond, if you stay on his good side,” he advised, dusting his hands off idly, more to have something to do with them than needing to, and Frisk, glancing up at him through bloodshot eyes, nodded silently, her arms refolding themselves around her abdomen.

She had no mind to spare for such trivialities as keeping her violent, savage new mate happy; she was still struggling with the loss of everything she had once known, the hard, cold reality of her situation.

That hope had been the only thing pushing her forward, the only belief she had to keep going on. Without it... she didn't know what she was going to do. How was she supposed to go on? Could she? She had heard of people dying of a broken heart...

It certainly felt like she was...

Grillby stood watching the odd little being at his bar for a long moment, aware that she was lost in her own world and caught up in her own emotions, before he cleared his throat, looked at the back of his closed bar door... and answered to a premonition that dug at the back of his mind, something he wouldn't ask of any other monster.

They wouldn't care. They would only see the situation as justly deserved. This girl, though... he had a feeling that she wasn't like them.

He didn't know how, or why. It was just a feeling.

“…If you wish to attempt to spare Aaron’s life, I suggest rubbing charcoal into your jeans, over the contact point, and bathing immediately,” he offered quietly, turning to fiddle with a stack of menus that awaited the lunch crowd, and Frisk, starting, emerged from her sea of misgiving and disquiet to stare at the flame elemental's profile, eyes wide and bright.

That's right.

There were other things that mattered beyond her own suffering, other's lives and well being at stake. Aaron was a bit of a creep, sure, but he certainly didn't deserve to be executed for touching her leg for a split second.

Frisk grasped, with all her might, onto the opportunity to save a life, to vex the Sans the universe had seen fit to force on her even further (she wouldn't bend to his will, not even if he was all she had. It was her choice to be with him, not his to force on her, she had to remember that). She may be stuck here, but she did _not_ have to fall to pieces and lose her fire because of that.

She had more moxie than that. Universe be damned, she would fight til the end.

“Oh! Thank you! I definitely don’t want him to die over something so stupid,” she exclaimed, sitting up with a firm, heartening surge in her spirits, and Grillby, barely restraining a laugh (as he had expected...), smiled warmly at her.

“…You are a kind monster… uncommon, in these times. …What is your name?” he queried, folding his arms across his chest and leaning a hip against the bar, and Frisk, still buoyed on the resurgence of her emotions (she really needed to find some steady ground with her feelings... she felt incredibly unstable, in her vacillating mental state), dared to hope that such a question pointed to him, in fact, not remembering her at all, returning his smile sunnily.

“Frisk. I’d shake your hand, but…” she offered, lowering her instinctively rising hand abashedly, and Grillby snorted softly, amused by the odd little being.

“…Yes, that would not be wise. …It is wonderful to meet you, though. …Perhaps, with that kindness, you can change Sans for the better,” he mused, hope clinging to his tone (against his better judgment and efforts, the cruel overlord of the winter-locked caverns was a friend, and he didn't want him to suffer), and Frisk, shoving herself back to her feet while she still had the will to move, let out a snort of her own, grasping her bag of food and rolling her shoulders.

“Fat chance...” she muttered to herself, her lips thinning in determined vigor, and waved her free hand to Grillby in farewell, already making her way to the door that led outside, towards the path she had chosen.

“Thanks for everything, Grillby! See you around!”

It truly saddened her that she wouldn't be seeing him again, if her renewed intent carried through. He had been far more benevolent than his appearance had suggested.

* * *

At the bar Frisk had just vacated, the slumbering bird monster, grunting and shifting, finally lifted his head, his bleary, red eyes following her as she departed. He blinked slowly, humming under his breath, then turned to the taciturn and also watchful bartender, sitting up with a groan and smacking his dry beak.

“Man, Grillz… Sans, mated. 'Bout damn time, eh? You really think she can get through to the old hardass?” he queried, his voice nowhere as tired as his appearance (a few of his feathers stuck up here and there on one side of his head, betraying his former occupation).

Grillby, his usual sharp, broad grin a flat line of intense thought, watched the girl retreat out the front door of his bar, her tiny hand clenched around the greasy bag he had given her and her back straight, filled with courage and resolve. He raised his own hand to his chest again, for the third time since she had walked in, clenching in the fabric of his button up shirt and soothing the flare of his soul.

Stars, he didn’t want to release that girl back to her mate. She… he didn’t know her, despite feeling just the opposite, but he knew she wasn’t safe with Sans, and didn’t deserve the cuts and bruises he had seen on her skin.

He hadn’t been able to dismiss a strange feeling of déjà vu the entire time she had been speaking with him, sure that he knew her but knowing that was impossible. He had never seen her before, he knew that for a fact, but hearing her voice… feeling her strength of character, and hearing of her rare compassion, a treasure in this place and time…

He felt like he had known her for a decade, and valued her dearly.

“…I believe so; she is a good soul, that much is obvious. …I can only hope he doesn’t break her,” he crackled softly, his flames flickering low, and a dark blue, at the thought, before he dropped his hand, picked up a spotty glass, and made the familiar, comforting motions of shining it.

Far be it for him to assume to tell a monster how to handle their mate… but he truly did hope Sans was better to her than the other women he had been with before. If there was one thing he knew, it was that that girl deserved far better than anything that the violent, temperamental skeleton monster could give her in his current state.

“…I do not wish to see her come to harm at his hands.”

* * *

Once again back in the chill of the ever present winter, the wind steadily picking up and blowing swaths of snow across the stamped and muddied road through town, Frisk pulled her hood over her head and zipped her coat up all the way, clutching the bag in her hand to keep it from being ripped out of her hand. She dallied in the doorway of the bar for a moment, waiting until the crowds of milling, chatting monsters cleared a bit, before starting off into the gale, turning resolutely towards the treeline just visible through the rising storm.

In an afterthought, as she passed by the burned out carapace of the ruined house she had passed earlier that morning, Frisk stopped, rubbed a hand against one of the singed logs, and wiped the ash on her jeans, a small smirk on her scarf covered lips.

Because though she wished to believe there was more than just this place for her future, she had to come to terms with the possibility that there wasn't. If she was to survive and not be lost (again) to her surging emotions, she had to accept that she might be trapped in this nightmare world, and with that came a laundry list of responsibility first of which being sparing all the monsters she could.

She had to treat this trek through the caverns the same way she had her journey in her youth, a quest of salvation and friendship. She wasn't sure where this would lead her, how she was going to save them all, with Flowey gone (she still couldn't comprehend it, his dust on the wind; he had never died before, it was supposed to be _impossible_ to kill Asriel), but she would find a way.

She always had, no matter the cost.

Frisk walked with purpose through the howl of the wind and the bite of the cold, shouldering past the haggard and leering monsters carefully (she took great caution in not bumping into any of them), past the last of the houses, past the empty Lirbarby, past the hulking shadow of the skeleton brothers' home, and into the towering forest once more before slowing enough to remember her food, the bag already cooling in her hand.

She waited until the last of the monsters, a muttering, shambling, rag draped rat, had disappeared from view before tearing into the burger as she walked, nearly moaning at the juices and flavor. She wished idly for ketchup for a moment (the thought caused a pang of fragmented loss to run through her, quickly stifled and shoved down), but her hunger and purpose didn't keep her wanting for long, and before she knew it, the burger was gone, its only remnants the lingering crumbs on her gloves and the front of her coat.

She brushed these off idly as she passed the sign in the road that proclaimed her destination, her boot heels crunching in the progressively more and more undisturbed snow, the trees blocking a great deal of the wind and giving her, for the first time in a long time, a sense of peace. The forest on this side of Snowdin seemed less diseased, the blackened mosses and burned trees far less frequent, and even spotted a few little homes in the distance through the giant plants, chimneys smoking merrily.

If it weren't for the pain in her shoulder, the raw rubbing of her new boots against her ankles, and the impending dread that being chased provoked, she would almost be happy, her strides long and her mind, for the moment, blissfully blank.

She didn't want to think any more about what she had to do, what her presence in this place meant, at least for now. She had a long way to walk, and the thinking could come later.

The next few hours were largely uneventful, occasionally interspersed with having to jump off the path to avoid a passing monster or needing to to stop to fetch herself a drink from the freezing cold water of the rushing river, but Frisk kept on determinedly, true to her goal and her driving force, and when the luminescence of the mosses that lit the caves of Snowdin were beginning to fade, casting a dull green glow over the snow and the treeline, the path before her changed at last.

Ahead, the trees finally, _finally,_ started to thin out and give way to dull green grasses and lessening patches of ice and snow, and beyond the sparse foliage was the bridge, the bridge that crossed the river that fed the far off lake and led into the high, misty caves of Waterfall; she felt a surge of relief, seeing the end to the forest, and the true beginning to her escape.

Running down the path was all well and good, but it was easy to follow footprints in snow. In Waterfall was where she would really lose him.

She could practically smell the freshness of thawing greenery from here, could hear the thunder of falling water splashing across wet stones and gurgling in swirling pools, and despite her tired body, despite the ache in her feet from the chafing of her boots, Frisk sped her steps, her heart soaring and her hope renewing, spreading wings of brand new, surging determination in her chest.

She just had to make it there, and everything would be fine.

She could hide her path in the water, disguise her scent behind the many, intermingling smells of life and mud and mist. No one but _him_ was looking for her this time, either, and he seemed reluctant to let anyone else know about her, so Undyne wouldn’t be breathing down her neck as she ducked and dodged her way through the rivers and swamps.

She could do this. She really could, her escape within reach. There was nothing to stop her, nothing in… her…

No… no, _no_ …

Frisk, only a few steps from the log bridge that led to her safety, skidded to a halt, knees locking and eyes widening as, through the frozen mist and swirling fog, a dark, shifting silhouette formed, halfway across the bridge.

She wanted to tell herself it was her mind playing tricks on her, that it was just a far off tree stump illuminated against the constantly changing scenery, but she knew better even before the shape in the fog took a step forward, the figure solidifying into a hulking, shadowy, _familiar_ form.

She didn’t want to believe it, protested immediately against the unfairness of it all (she hadn’t even gotten a real chance to escape… he’d _known_ where to trap her, _knew_ this was a choke point that she couldn’t possibly avoid without chancing drowning in the far too deep river), but looked, with inevitable dread, on the emerging shape of her captor before her, his skeletal face set in a sneer and his hands in his jacket pockets and, glinting at his side, the chain she knew he couldn’t wait to bind her with again bouncing against his long, wrathful stride.

Sans had found her, long before she even had a hope of hiding from him, and had backed her into a corner with incredible ease.

Frisk wanted so badly to show solidarity in the face of her waking nightmare, wanted so much to prove to him that her resolve hadn’t been broken by his threats, by his intimidations and force and the memory of his hands on her body (she forced back her retch, her stomach rebelling at the hated recollection), but shrank back a step despite all of her intent, her shoulders drooping and her arms drawing across her body defensively.

She hated herself for her fear, but she couldn’t help it, couldn’t still the trepidation making her heart shrink, couldn’t silence the reverberations of practiced, pleading murmurs that begged for her to crawl to him on her hands and knees.

Surely, if she groveled, he wouldn’t act on the malice and fury in his narrowed sockets. She had made a mistake, thinking she could run… if she apologized, and went to him now… maybe…

Maybe he would lessen his promised punishment.

But she couldn’t do that, couldn’t lower herself to the weeping, beseeching weakness that clawed at her mind as she found herself in the all too familiar territory of her abuser’s wrath, and so Frisk forced her back straight, folding her arms across her quavering chest (the air hurt her lungs, as she breathed it in; she was gasping for it too quickly, she had to calm down…) and glaring back at Sans the skeleton, blinking angrily at the tears of fear that threatened her gaze.

She had come this far. He wasn’t going to stop her this time.

Sans trudged his way across the bridge towards his quarry at a leisurely pace, unhurried and casual but with ever increasing, ominous malevolence; his form wavered and sparked, against the background of the mist, his already awakened magic affecting the weather and thickening the air with cloying, choking, supernatural force, the smell of ozone and danger permeating the surrounding atmosphere.

He came to a stop, at last, on the final log of the crossing, and stared down at the tremulous, quivering, but stubborn human girl before him, scowling and punitive, before tsking his tongue against the backs of his gritted fangs, shaking his head sardonically but never removing his threatening, furious magical gaze from hers.

“wrong choice, sweetheart.”

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and waiting, and I hope to see you back again soon!


	13. The End of the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The showdown at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE ACTUAL CHAPTER 13 <3
> 
> At very long last, and some forwarding of the plot itself.

* * *

Frisk couldn't help the whimper of fear that escaped her, nor the step back she stumbled, her knees locking together coltishly.

Sans growled softly at her motion, the magic sparking in his left eye socket wafting away from his cracked skull in a flickering stream, like the head of a flame in the wind.

He seemed even larger than he really was, in her fear, seeming to tower over her with absolute, overwhelming duress, and under the weight of his gaze, of the malice she had heard in his grating, rumbling voice, Frisk quailed, clasping at the front of her parka for the solidarity she so desperately needed.

Seeing him again was throwing terrible memory over her gaze, recalling his hands against her skin and his voice reverberating through his ribcage as it pressed, bare bones to flesh, to her breasts…

Him breathing her name against her throat, and what it meant if she dared to let her despair and suspicions rule her.

She couldn’t back down. She couldn’t stop here, not when she was so close to her potential freedom, her return to a world she _had_ to believe still existed. She… she’d fight him, if she had to.

She glanced sideways at a thick branch that extended from the half melted, wilting snowbank beside her, judging the distance between it and her, before looking back to Sans, repressing another shudder as she decided on her plan of action, should he come any closer. One of the knives from the shop would have worked better, but at least she could defend herself with the stick.

 _Far_ better than nothing.

“M-move. I’m going,” she spat at him unsteadily, shame spreading across her cheeks in a bright red flush of mortified indignity (damn her nervous stutter, she hated it so much… it made her sound so much weaker than she was), and Sans, across the road from her, narrowed his already thin, hostile sockets, spreading his stance on the bridge solidly to completely and effectively bar the rest of the path to her.

“not how ya think ya are, you’re not,” he sneered disparagingly, shifting his shoulders to settle his jacket, and the strap of the backpack she had dropped, on his wide shoulders; his breath hissed from him in a steaming, volatile cloud of frozen vapor, only contributing to his terrifying appearance even more, the fur on his coat stirring in the same gale that plucked at her scarf.

Standing here, held under his baleful gaze, was like staring down a wild, ferocious beast that wanted nothing more than to tear her throat out with its teeth; the sentiment probably wasn’t far from its mark, honestly… the murder glinting in his sockets testified to his bloodthirsty, savage temper, alight with his fury and his need to castigate her for defying him.

Frisk swallowed nervously, trying to push down the dread that threatened her demeanor (show no fear… don’t let him into your head), and straightened out of her flinching, standing as tall as she was able.

She had promised herself. He wasn't going to bully her anymore. She would never again be slave to his whim and will, not in this life. She hadn't fought a monster since Asriel, so long ago she could barely remember the interface, but she would do her best.

“Y-you… you can’t stop me,” she forced out, her will made of rusted iron and her nerves as steely as she could make them while in the face of her worst nightmare (she had hoped, so fervently, that she would get just a bit farther, be more prepared for this encounter... have more time to cope with his assault on her), and Sans, his fierce, unamused grin curling scornfully at the edges, tilted his head in mock curiosity.

His hands fisted in his jacket pockets, his jaw gritting audibly.

“that a fact? then what are we standin’ here chattin’ for? walk on… _i dare ya_ ,” he invited maliciously, withdrawing a hand from his coat to gesture at the expanse of bridge beside him, but Frisk knew better than to accept such an offer, could hear the malcontent and trickery in his voice, and only hugged herself tighter, her fingers white knuckled in her gloves as she clasped at her parka.

Sans smirked viciously at her hesitance, dropping his hand to his side and snickering to himself.

“’s what i fuckin’ thought.”

He considered her where she stood, looking over her new clothes, the grasp of her gloved hands at her arms, her knocking knees, and let out a huff of quickly frozen breath, the wind scattering it over the rushing river below. He took a single, menacing step forward, and only grinned more broadly, humorless and enraged, at the surprised, cautious step she stumbled back.

“y’know, i was just startin’ ta think you’d actually been smart and gone back to the shed. shoulda figured that was thinkin’ too highly of ya,” he chided, degrading and crass, and Frisk, every cell in her mind screaming at her to run, to beg, _anything_ but face her doom down again, shivered where she stood, the ground she had lost scraped raw with the tread of her boots.

Damnit... _damnit_ , why...

“I… I… I’m leaving, Sans. I won’t stay with you anymore,” she forced out, grasping desperately at the shattered remains of her resolve, and Sans, his smile as jagged as the ice seeping into her heart, let out a raucous, mocking chortle, none of his affected laughter effecting the cold, cruel slant of his sockets, murder and malevolence and punishing rage shining in his awakened magic.

“heh… heh heh heh… what makes ya think _that_ was ever a choice for you? what part of ‘ _you’re mine_ ’ do ya not understand?” he questioned harshly, advancing another heavy, world ending step across the bridge, but this time, Frisk held her ground, her eyes, filled with terrified tears and horrific memory, rising to meet his gaze in firm, hardy determination.

She belonged to herself, and no other. Not even her Sans owned her, and never would, even when she returned to his side.

She refused to think of the dark future that the snide voice in the back of her mind whispered of, of the possibility that her beloved would no longer desire her, or no longer existed at all, shaking it away with the firm resolution of her pulsing soul. It didn't matter.

Here and now, she had bigger demons to wrestle with.

“The part that I’m not! I didn’t accept this mark, or even want it! You can’t just-” she protested as firmly as she could muster, lowering her hands to clench at her sides in fists of will and belligerent might (she always felt so small under the weight of his anger, so very powerless and tiny, like an ant biting the toe of a giant), but before she could finish, Sans cut her off with harsh, rumbling growl, his cruel smile sinking into a fierce, formidable glower.

His next step shook the entire bridge, and sent Frisk stumbling back, skidding on a patch of ice in her hurry.

“i can do whatever the fuck i please, woman. you’re my _soulmate_ . my **_only_ **. i won’t be kept from my right. not by you, or no one else,” he snarled, his fangs razors of malice and spite, and Frisk, heart stuttering in her chest and eyes wide, shivered where she stood, her lower lip wobbling and her glistening eyes barely holding his flaming, savage gaze.

He hadn't even attempted to deny what he had forced onto her, the bite mark pulsing with recognition and foreign magic in the tissue of her shoulder... he had no shame, not even in the fact that she hadn't accepted his claim. He didn't regret hurting her, not in the least of what he had done to her. He didn't regret raping her, and taking from her what she had hoped to have with the love of her life.

He _definitely_ wasn't her Sans any longer, if he ever had been, and this confirmation only firmed her quailing heart, her flagging soul.

“You don’t have any right!” she shouted, her voice cracking with the volume of her insistence, the intensity of her rejection, and Sans, his glower deepening into vengeful rancor and near hatred, let out a ragged howl of ire, left socket blazing with power and clawed hands crackling with his corrupted, homicidal magic.

All the snow within twenty feet steamed and shriveled, the branches of the nearest trees shaking and the water of the river below bubbling; the air itself shrank, heavy with the waves of heat and permeating acrimony the enraged skeleton monster was exuding.

Frisk cringed away from the fury of his enmity, the weight of his vitriolic temper, but Sans, fangs bared and awash with blood red magic, had no pity for her fear, one of his clawed hands rising and clenching into a punishing fist.

She only realized what he was doing when she felt gravity crush around her soul, and let out a shuddering gasp, powerless against the pull of his might, the clutch of his magic, as he lifted her off the ground, frozen and whimpering in pain and terror.

His approach was the stalking of a starving predator, the prowl of an executioner with his mind on murder, and only stopped when he was an inch from her flinching, tear stained face, hot, nicotine saturated breath washing over her clenched lips and sockets creased with anger unspeakable.

“ **_i have the only right,_ ** ” he claimed in a ragged, harsh mutter, his quiet, dark whisper somehow even more terrifying than his shouting, and stared her down in silence before, with a long exhalation and a flicker of his enflamed iris, his scowl raised again into a cruel grin, its edge a sharp as blade, dripping with carnality and vengeance.

His raised fist, ensconced in scarlet sorcery, clenched tighter, and pulled a whimpering cry of pain from her forcefully held shut lips, her dangling legs trembling.

“heh… don’t matter what you say anyway. you’ll come ta accept this one day, wit' enough time. right now, though… we have some business. you disobeyed me again… and i warned ya what would happen,” he reminded her, dire consequence and animosity layering the bone of his visage, before he, abruptly and without warning, released the clutch of his magic, dropping her to the slushy ground.

Frisk slipped to her rear, unable to support her weight so suddenly, and immediately attempted to crawl away, every inch of her body alive with nerves and quaking with fearful adrenaline, but she didn't make it far, not nearly far enough, before she felt his hand curl into the folds of her scarf to grasp her collar, pulling her backwards and back up to her feet by his new rein.

She choked, clawing at the leather as it pulled tight around her throat, but he had no mind for her need for air, and swung her around behind him by the collar so he could pull her back along the path towards the treeline, dread purpose and vexation in his long stride. The new angle of his grip allowed Frisk some space to breathe, her lips wide as she gasped at the frigid air, but the situation at hand was one of far more importance, her mind spinning in panicked circles and her hands grasping for anything that she could to belay the terrible punishment he had promised her.

She beat at his arm with her fists, reached desperately for the branch she had considered for a weapon only moments before as he pulled her past it... nothing stopped him, his steps sure and his intent sinister.

“No, no, let me go! I won’t l-let you…” she gasped out, pulling back as hard as she could against his hold on her, locking her knees and forcing him to drag her through the packed snow on the path, but he showed little to no trouble with her resistance, snorting and throwing her a sarcastic, unimpressed sneer over his shoulder.

“ _let me_? don’t be fuckin’ stupid. ya can’t resist me, frisk. you got no power here… you can’t reset or run, don’t have the heart to FIGHT. you’re helpless… at my whim and will,” he assured her with a callous laugh, ruthless and belligerent, before slinging her forward, past where he halted and against the trunk of a broad, ancient pine tree. She clutched at the bark, glancing fearfully up at him through the hair escaping the edge of her skullcap, and he glowered down at her with heinous cruelty glinting in his vengeful snarl, raising a hand to forcefully turn her so her back pressed against the tree.

“and my fuckin’ whim is ta get it through your thick skull that crossin’ me ain’t in your best interests. if it takes cripplin' ya an' screwin’ you against a tree in the middle of the damn road to do that…” he muttered, stepping off the path and caging her against the tree trunk with his broad chest, and bent over her, meeting her gaze with aphotic, cruel warrant.

One of his hands pushed her shoulder back into the hard, curved surface of the tree, the other gripping the pull on her parka's zipper and tearing it down, baring her sweater and nearly pulling the coat from her arms.

“so fuckin’ be it.”

He was pressed against her front the next moment, one clawed hand forcing its way under the hem of her sweater while the other fisted in the hood of her parka, constricting her movement; one of his femurs rose to press between her thighs, spreading her legs forcefully apart for him, and his fanged mouth, panting clouds of icy want against her flesh, bowed to press against her jawline, a deep inhalation breathing her in.

She fought with all her might to push him away, shoving at his shoulders and squirming mightily, but could already feel the languor of punishing memory slipping into her mind, numbing the tips of her fingers and the freezing her heart. She could feel the hardness of his erection against her abdomen, the intent in the way he undulated his hips and pulled at her belt, and tasted bile on the back of her tongue, her stomach rebelling.

No... not again...

“No! No, _stop_ … get off of me, I-” she cried out plaintively, beating a fist against the center of his chest and shaking her head, away from the press of his bony lips, and let out a gasp when he flinched and snarled ferociously, his skull snapping back and his saliva saturated grin tightening into pained ire.

The hand he had shoved under her sweater rose across his body and into the freezing air, firm and promising pain, and Frisk yelped and hid her head under her own hands, flinching away from the blow that was sure to come.

And yet it lingered in the air, frozen in place and almost trembling; his hand never fell, his phalanges closing into a fist and his enraged expression creasing, stricken and hollowed, with what Frisk could only call _guilt_.

...what?

He surprised her even further by lowering his hand entirely, slow and shaking, to lay against the tree trunk next to her head, his forehead falling to lay against the bark as well. He let out a haggard breath, layered with temper and rancor, before shifting back to glare down at her, his hesitance fading beneath a veneer of affected anger.

“jus'... shut tha fuck up. keep tellin’ me what ta do, and this’ll only be worse for ya,” he advised gruffly, clearly shaken by his own pathos, and Frisk could only stare, cast adrift once again on the sea of his unexpected reactions.

What in god's name had just happened?

Sans grunted to himself, breathing heavily through his nasal cavity and watching her for a moment to see if she would keep her silence, before rearranging his hold on her, smoothing her hood down and rubbing the material of her scarf between his rough fingers. He looked appreciative, considering and intent, in his inspection, and glanced back up at her quickly, claws lingering around the collar of her sweater.

“lookit all these pretty little things ya bought yourself... _damn_ ya look good in red. you’d blend right in with the rest of us like this… pretty smart. figured you’d a found some way ta hide yourself. but i hope ya know what really saved ya was my magic in your veins,” he murmured, his broad ribcage still pressing against her chest, holding her to the tree with his weight, and though Frisk, head still swimming from his abrupt departure from violence (what did it mean? He usually had no hold on his temper, what could have possibly happened to sway him from hitting her?), was nearly stunned motionless by his former behavior, she still let out a quiet gasp when he pulled the neckline of her sweater down, baring the scabbed, tingling bite mark to his gaze.

A contented rumble, almost a purr, vibrated through his chest at the sight, and he bent his head to press his bony lips to the healing wound, his tongue slipping between his fangs to lap at the raised surface. Frisk flinched, biting back the pleasurable exhalation that attempted to escape her lips at the familiar, intimate motion, the jolt of heated recognition that ran through her body, but Sans felt it, felt how she reacted, and chuckled to himself.

He caressed her hip, and slicked his tongue along her mark once more, completely ignoring the pressure of her hands against his chest, feebly trying to push him away.

“the freaks in town smelled me on your skin… burning in your _blood_ , and knew you were mine. no one messes with me and mine, sweetheart… ya need me. you'd be dead where ya fuckin' stand without me, whether ya like it or not,” he reminded her, and a rush of memory and shock washed over her, her eyes flashing wide and her gaze flying far, far away, to the long forgotten past.

“ _you'd be dead where you stand.”_

Sans... _her_ Sans... he had said that to her once. The first time, when Asriel had turned into that... abomination. He had threatened her. She had been scared... she had only been able to stare at him, into his empty, terrifying sockets, tears pricking at her eyes. He... he had been her friend, she hadn't done anything _wrong_ , why was he being so mean?

She'd been so intimidated that she'd nearly pulled her stick on him, when he'd appeared to her in the Judgment Hall of the castle. All the other monsters had attacked her... surely his earlier comment had impended the same.

She had laughed with him, when he'd said it was a joke. She'd wanted to believe it, too... but had braced herself for it again, the next time she had come to the resort, when she failed to save them all and went back to the beginning. When she toiled to make friends with the monsters, when she stayed for _months_ , trying to find the answer Asriel had whispered before the world had turned back to the very start.

And he hadn't said it.

He'd only sat across the fancy table from her, actually bought her some food. Watched her eat with a tired, unknowable smile. Asked what she was going to do, when the time came. Told her he was proud of her, how hard she was trying.

“i'm glad, you know. that it was a human like you that fell. we could have been stuck with much... much worse.”

It hurt her head to wonder at what he had meant. The other souls had spoken to her, in the end. Told her their stories, their dreams and wishes. They had been good children. Not a one had fought back against their end. But something had haunted Sans' gaze, as he had walked away and disappeared into the shadows beside the stage, something that had made her heart falter.

Something that spoke of nightmares, and broken glass, and blood and bone.

And it was moments like these, when this Sans toed the line between worlds, that she wondered. That she wondered, indeed, if he was really so different. He had been cruel, more cruel than anyone had ever been to her. He had beaten her, broken her, stolen every inch of her but her soul... and yet. And yet, only a moment before, she had seen something in him that she had never seen before.

Something like regret, so strong it had stayed his hand.

She was loath to believe he had made a full turnaround. She sure as hell wasn't going to give him a pass, either. But if there was a chance that he was still her Sans... a chance to keep him from not just hurting her, but hurting himself as well... hadn't she said she would save him too, no matter what he did to her?

She had to try. She _had_ to. She hadn't given up on him yet, despite her fear, her hatred, the unknown pressing in from all sides. She had to, because it was what she did.

And so, she stilled the push of her hands, clutching his t-shirt in her gloved fingers. She hushed her quiet sobs, and looked to him with tear filled, frosted eyes, her lip trembling and her breath fogging the air between them, his own humid against her flesh, his touch possessive, pulling her into his embrace, his control.

“Please, Sans... let me _go_...” she begged in a shaking whisper, laying her head against the side of his skull (the feeling of bone against her flesh made her even more queazy, her vision unsteady and her knees quavering and her stomach rolling in heaving waves), and Sans, hands freezing where they lay against her body, sucked in a shuddering breath, his entire body tensing.

He lingered where he stood, face buried against her shoulder and thigh pinning her back to the truck of the tree, before, with a low, rumbling growl and a flash of heated, scarlet magic, he turned his head to glare at her furiously, his fangs gritted and his nasal ridge pressing against the end of her nose.

“ _fuck you_. i warned ya, i told ya what ya had ta do ta keep me from hurtin' ya, and ya ignored it completely! you brought this on your fuckin' self! don't go cryin' an' beggin' cuz you're takin' your lumps now, you-” he snarled, grip tightening on her hip and in the fabric of her neckline, but despite the fear that flooded her in the face of his anger, the dread that froze her blood in her veins at the feeling of hard, malevolent intent pressing against her abdomen, she bit back her instinctual whimper, blinking and breathing shallowly, before interrupting him, a single, glistening tear slipping from her lashes to streak down the curve of her cheek.

The flared, savage iris in his left socket followed its path, his glower shrinking the further it fell.

“Please… **_don’t_ ** … not again...” she plead, her hands shaking where they were clutched against his chest and her misery and fear echoing in her cracked, meek voice, and this time, she was sure she saw it, the flash of pain and rue that speared his visage, his magic guttering and his sneer disappearing entirely.

It was like she had socked him in the gut, if he had had any; he flinched away from her, his hands leaving her body entirely and his expression shrinking. He couldn't seem to look away from her tears, clawed hands rising to prop himself up against the trunk of the tree and magic flickering like a dying fire.

His arms were shaking, beside her head, like he was holding off an enormous weight.

“shut up. shut _up_ , stop it, don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, his teeth grinding together and his tone harsh, but there was none of his former anger in it, no threat of unspeakable malice or punishment yet undelivered, and Frisk's soul boldened, awash with determined hope.

“Please… _please_... have mercy...” she pressed, pulling at the material of his t-shirt and sniffling, and the skeleton monster, skull bowing and shoulders hunching, remained where he stood another moment, entire body shaking, before he shoved himself away from her, staggering back onto the snow piled road.

He was _seething,_ when he stumbled to a stop in the center of the path, his anger multiplying and growing like a wildfire as his flaring gaze again rose to her, and Frisk, for a long, tense moment that felt like the end of the world, every drop of her hope and resolution draining from her, quailed under that stare, sure she had only turned back time, only written herself into the same scenario that she had last night.

That she was truly, without a shadow of a doubt, mistaken about him, and had wasted her only chance of escape on a gainless venture.

And when he moved, his large, clawed hands clenching into fists of rage and immeasurable enmity, she fell back against the tree trunk with a plaintive, fearful outcry, already feeling his anger pressing against her mind in sickening, echoed waves, his hands on her body, breaking, stealing, branding, ravaging.

But nothing came, nothing but a sound like a truck hitting a concrete wall, and a crash so loud she let out a yelp, several feet away from where she was cowering.

“fuck, fuck, **_fuck_ **!”

When she dared to look up, shaking fingers still clenched over her teary eyes, it was to the sight of Sans, practically glowing with the intensity of his own magic, slamming his fist against the trunk of a fallen, _flaming_ pine tree across the road from her, his fangs a slice of bloodthirsty ire and his sockets wide in his encapsulating choler. He was cursing almost without pause, completely ignoring everything but the repeated meeting of his closed fists against the fallen tree.

Had... did he tear that tree from the ground with his _bare hands_?

Frisk, hands moving down to clutch at her upper arms, stepped cautiously away from the tree she was propped against and onto the path, shocked gaze on the enraged skeleton's temper tantrum. He was kicking the tree now, the chain on his belt swinging wildly with every stomp, and insulting everyone in the tree's immediate family with indiscretion.

She swallowed, looking down the road to Waterfall (there was no point, she very much doubted he was going to let her go, even in his fit of... oddity) before turning back to him and clearing her throat.

“S… Sans? Are you-” she began, edging around his back with a great deal of learned, wise caution to look at the damage he was doing (good gods, how strong was he?! The tree was turning into pulp, under his onslaught), and Sans, his shoulders hunching at the sound of her voice, whirled on his heel and rounded on her, pointing a shaking, sawdust and sap sticky finger in her face.

He was raw and animalistic, in his lividity, his breath hissing from between his spread fangs in fogged clouds and his socket blazing and crimson saliva escaping his mouth unheeded.

“don’t fuckin’ talk to me, bitch. i’m still pissed as hell, and i… just shut up, let me think for a damn second,” he growled viciously, extended claw clenching into a trembling fist, and Frisk shrunk into herself meekly under his insistence, gloved hands clutching together before her chest and breath catching in her throat as he turned back to continue his violent tirade, magic crackling in the air to manifest a scarlet, cracked bone spear in one hand.

She watched him repeatedly stab at the trunk of the fallen tree, smoke and chips of wood and foul curses filling the disturbed air as he expended the worst of his temper.

“this is fuckin’ **perfect** . can’t even give her what’s comin’ to her, what the _fuck_ … sentimental _bullshit_... what tha hell was he doin', breathin' or some shit...” he muttered to himself, vitriol and bitterness in his ragged, breathless, gravelly tone, and though Frisk wondered what he was talking to himself about (who was doing what? Had he been trying to teach himself calming exercises?), she could only marvel at his tactics and decision to turn his anger away from her at all.

She knew his temper by this point, more than a month of acquaintance familiarizing her with the violent, unstable monster, with his fragile, wire thin control over his dominating hand and his fleeting patience. She'd learned the hard way, through pain and repetition and humiliation... and had only assumed he would get worse, after what he'd done to her the night before. How could he not? He'd certainly threatened worse, when he'd cornered her in the woods...

When he'd pressed her to the tree only moments ago, his hands encroaching on her modesty and flesh once again... his mouth pressing to her throat all too familiarly...

Frisk pulled at her askew sweater collar at the thought, her stomach rolling at the feeling of his saliva still cooling on the puckered bite mark buried in her shoulder, but could only continue staring at the irate monster shouting at the smoldering tree before him, watch his broad shoulders and back strain and shift.

...Why? Why had he changed his mind? She couldn't understand _why_ , and she certainly didn't trust that his benevolence would last long. She just wished he was easier to read.

Frisk scoffed to herself, shaking her head and zipping her parka back up resolutely. Again, he was similar to her Sans, in that regard... he was impossible to read too, far too used to hiding his emotions and feelings to openly display them.

Perhaps, though... perhaps this was her Sans' influence. Like Bonnie's kindness, and Grillby's understanding and advice, perhaps... maybe he was more than what he had shown her thus far. Maybe there was something good left in him after all.

She could certainly hope.

With one final, vicious stab that both snapped the truck of the tree completely in half and extinguished the bone in his grasp, Sans let his hands drop to his sides, his entire frame heaving in exertion. Red sweat stood out against his skull, dripping from under his black, snow and ash dusted beanie, and the ruff of his coat shifted in the chill breeze, before, with a kick aimed at a shattered branch and a snort, Sans turned to stalk over to Frisk's side, shifting her backpack off of his own shoulder to thrust it into her hands, stunning her breath from her body.

“c’mon, get your shit together. we gotta go,” he snapped, his magic faded to crimson pinpricks in his sockets, and looked up and down the road cursorily while Frisk juggled her returned pack, flabbergasted and confused.

She opened her mouth to question him, clutching at her knapsack and shivering from the shock of it all, but Sans, in yet another rapid change of pace, reached out to grasp a handful of her parka's neckline, dragging her towards him and flush against his heaving, sap and ember dotted chest. There was a pine needle stuck to his cheekbone, a smudge of ash on his chin, but those in no way lessened the effect of his glare, the commanding snarl tilting his mouth into punishing vengeance as he turned his gaze from the road to her, regarding her with restrained, but fervent, anger.

“and don’t get it inta your pretty little head that you’ve won, or got outta this easy. i’ll make ya regret today… you’ll wish you’d never set foot outta that shed, once i do. but right now, we need ta make tracks. there ain’t time for any a that shit,” he spat, shaking her in place, before slinging her in front of him and down the road, towards the bridge over the river.

She stumbled, barely keeping her feet and nearly losing her grip on her pack, but found her balance and firmed her shock into stillness, raising her chin in defiance.

If her Sans was indeed in there, this asshole was extremely good at hiding him.

“I… I’m not going with you,” she claimed, standing her ground even as he stomped after her, and he sneered, pushing her by the shoulders and making her fall into the snow at the side of the path, the disturbed, slushed ice seeping into her pants and sending her skittering back to her feet as quickly as she was able, jumping away from him and the treeline instinctively.

“yes. you. are,” he insisted, snapping his jaws in agitation at her slowness in moving and her awkwardness (her hat had fallen off when she had stumbled to the ground, floating in a half-melted puddle of snow where she had fallen), and strode over, with a huff and a click of his tongue, to retrieve it.

Frisk, attempting to wring some of the frigid water from the end of her coat, scowled at him, her courage restored in the face of his waning anger and his mysterious benevolence.

“I have to go home! You can’t keep me here, I need-” she protested, stomping her boots to shake clinging bits of snow from her pants as best she could (damnit, it was seeping into her underwear...), and Sans, with a snarling growl, shot her a glare as he bent to retrieve her hat, his opposite hand sinking into the divot her leg had made in the drift.

“quit your whinin’ and move your ass, we don’t got all day. i need… ta…” he began to order, scrunching up the woolen beanie in his claws and pushing himself back up to full height, but trailed off on an inhalation, his hard, fierce gaze trained on his free hand. A smear of ash, black as pitch and dripping with moisture from the snow, covered his palm, but the dirtiness didn't bother him... something else had thrown him off, and when he raised his hand to his face and breathed in deeply, Frisk remembered.

_Aaron._

Aaron had touched her, something so completely against the rules here that it could get him killed, if not her in the process. The ash had been covering his scent... it must have washed off when she fell in the puddle.

She gulped wordlessly, hugging her backpack tight to her chest and biting her mostly healed bottom lip, as Sans, bony brow creasing in confused ire, brought his gaze from his curled claws and up to her, sodden clothes completely forgotten in the wake of his discovery.

**Shit.**

“what tha hell is this,” he demanded in a flat, terse tone, brandishing his dirtied palm and clenching his other hand around her discarded hat so tightly his knuckles popped, and Frisk flinched at the noise, jumpy and frightened all over again (gods no, he had just stopped being angry...), and had to physically stop herself from reaching down to touch her thigh self-consciously, clutching her pack even more tightly and breathing in short, shallow gasps.

“I… I don’t know what you're-” she attempted, unable to meet his gaze and shrinking in on herself (she'd always been such a terrible liar...), but he barked out a harsh, cutting, humorless note of laughter before teleporting, shimmering and snapping with furious magic, directly behind her. He wrenched the pack from her hands, throwing it and her hat to the ground dismissively, and twisted one of her arms up behind her back, so hard it nearly popped out of socket, the other grasping at the fall of her hair.

He pulled her head to the side, bent to breathe in deep against her neck, livid and unforgiving, and let out a gruff, haggard snarl, squeezing her captured wrist irately.

“you smell like another monster. someone touched you. _someone_ ** _T O U C H E D_** _you!_ ” he accused in a tone much too loud for being so close to her ear, jostling her and scaring a squeal from her lips, and Frisk, shaking and scared for her life (she'd seen what he'd done to that tree... he could rip her limb from limb, gods...), quailed in his grasp, arching away from him and shaking her head, as well as she could, in denial.

“No… I... it was an _accident_ …” she whimpered, straining to pull her arm from him, but he only twisted harder, jealousy and hatred coloring his every word.

“don’t give a fuck. you bear _my_ mark. you are _mine_ , and no one, **_no one_ ** **,** will touch you. i’ll dust _anyone_ that comes near my mate, _you hear me_?!” he shouted, his claws cutting into her wrist and his strength pulling against her arm so hard her bones began to protest, and Frisk, eyes watering and fear surging in her heart, choked back a sob in the hope of touching on his mercy yet again, clutching, with her free hand, at the phalanges he had ensnared in the length of her hair.

“You’re being ridiculous… Sans, _please_ … you’re _hurting_ me…” she begged, crying out in pain when one of her attempts to pull free sent a bolt of agony through her shoulder, but Sans was unmoved, his envious choler too great to be passed off, and only released her arm so he could turn her in his grasp, her hair looped around his knuckles like an obscene rein, and hook his now free fingers into her spiked collar, drawing her to him to snarl directly into her face, saliva spattering her cheeks in his rancor.

“ _good_ . you deserve it, lettin’ filth put their hands all over you. knew keepin’ you locked up was smart… the second you’re outta my line of sight, you’re whorin’ around town with a bunch of lowlives. _who_ ? who fuckin’ touched ya? was it fuckin' _grillby_ ? i can smell tha fuckin' bar all over ya, so don't you _dare_ lie ta me,” he demanded, his gaze snapping with magic and fury and his fangs glinting with vengeance, but though Frisk trembled, and nearly vomited at the feeling of him pressed against her again, and wanted nothing more than to weep in the face of her worst nightmare... she refused, breathing heavily through her nose and staring down the devil himself with all the determination she could muster.

“I-I won’t tell you. I won’t let you hurt anyone,” she announced, swallowing thickly but resolute as the day she had faced The End itself (she had stared into the void and rescued lost souls from its grasp, he was _nothing_ in comparison), and Sans' glower only deepened, his fangs gritting and his hand twisting harder in her hair, forcing tears from her eyes.

“tell me **_now!_ ** _”_ he roared, shaking her by his hold on her hair, but she only winced at the pain and met his violent covetousness with pure will, squaring her bruised jaw.

“No!” she shouted back, and Sans, sockets narrowing and sneer sharpening, growled viciously, deep in his chest and so intensely his entire body rumbled.

“ _fine_. i’ll find out myself,” he snapped, his patience at an absolute end, and used his hold on Frisk's hair to throw her to the ground at his feet, ignoring her pained exclamation and instead lowering himself to straddle her waist, holding her to the snowy path with extreme ease. She squirmed beneath him, fighting against his hands as he rearranged himself to slip her damp, ash stained pant-leg from between his.

“What are you doing?! Get off of me, I-” she demanded, bucking and wriggling to get away from him, but he was unmoving and just as determined as she to find what he was looking for, trailing his hand along her thigh and inspecting his ash covered phalanges with sneering disapproval.

“accident my bony ass. you tried ta _hide_ it. sneakin’ around behind my back, lettin’ every monster in tha fuckin’ underground have a go 'atcha… we’ll change _that_ all too soon,” he promised her, something dark and foreboding hinting along the edge of his words (her stomach lurched, her face losing all color), before he bent and pressed his nasal prominence against her leg entirely, claws clasped behind her knee and terrifyingly close to the space between her legs.

As he inhaled, he spoke, his sockets drifting closed.

“stone and water… health bars, scales… _sweat_ ,” he murmured, slow and meticulous, then, with a victorious snarl, dropped her leg to stare down at her, murderous glee in every inch of his homicidal grin.

“ **_aaron_ **. i’ll rip him ta fuckin’ shreds,” he vowed with malicious gaiety, clearly already imagining destroying him utterly, but Frisk, with panicked vigor, pulled at his hands plaintively, the snow seeping through the back of her coat unheeded.

“Sans, no, please! He didn't know, it was an accident!” she begged, her soul twisting in agony at the thought of one of her friends dying over such a small mistake, but Sans had had enough of her resistance, and locked his hands around her wrists, slamming them against the ground beside her head and glowering down at her menacingly.

“ _bullshit_ . i shoulda known it would be him... you've been weak for him before. he went too damn far this time, though, and _i_ ain't gonna just warn him like your soft little boyfriend did,” he snarled, again demonstrating his out of place knowledge of her world (she wished she could believe her beloved was in there, like the others had shown, but there was nothing in him, nothing but his fleeting and obviously short-lived mercy).

Neither of the arguing pair noticed the figure approaching from the distance, ragged cape flapping in the breeze and sockets trained on them as they grappled in the snow. Neither of them heard the crunch of his boots in the snow, or the snap of twigs from the fallen tree under his heels. Neither saw his shadow cross where they lay, long in the dying light of the luminescence of the fungi far overhead.

“This is _stupid,_ why does he have to die?!”

“he knows the rules. he knows what will happen, that it is my _due_ …”

Neither thought there would be a witness to their altercation until he spoke, head tilting curiously at the sight before him.

“BROTHER? WHAT ARE YOU DOING OUT HERE, YOUR SHIFT ISN’T OVER YET.”

The pair on the ground looked up in absolute, utter shock, Frisk frozen in the act of fighting against his hold on her wrists and Sans, his jaw popping open, never having looked more scared or guilty in his life. Papyrus, for his part, only tapped his boot in the snow, and frowned down at Frisk with dawning realization on his scarred, narrow face.

He sent a quick glance to his brother, his gloved phalanges tapping slow, one, two, three, four, against his forearm in clear expectation.

“AND WHILE YOU'RE AT IT, WOULD YOU CARE TO EXPLAIN WHY THERE IS A HUMAN BENEATH YOU?”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience, lovies.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Dearly Beloved](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7066069) by [thebananahasspoken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebananahasspoken/pseuds/thebananahasspoken)
  * [Idle Fancies: The Dalliance Drabble](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7883386) by [thebananahasspoken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebananahasspoken/pseuds/thebananahasspoken)




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